


Magical Storm

by Electricviolinist, Marbleeyes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Oblivious Derek, Oblivious Stiles, Rain Monsters, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9070549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electricviolinist/pseuds/Electricviolinist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marbleeyes/pseuds/Marbleeyes
Summary: A roar reverberated through the air. Not just any roar; a werewolf roar.“About fucking time!” exclaimed Stiles. He was going to let Scott win when they next played Mario Karts.The door to his jeep was yanked open and Stiles realised it wasn’t Scott who had come to save him. It was Derek Hale. A very wet Derek Hale. Stiles mind immediately headed south into an ‘R’ rated place; the wet t-shirt Derek was wearing was very tight.“You’re back,” was all he could think to say.Derek didn’t reply, because he was an antisocial dick. Instead he asked: “Does this piece of crap still drive?”“Uh, yes,” Stiles cried, massively offended on the behalf of his beautiful jeep.“Then drive. Now!”...It was a pretty normal day for Stiles, except then there was rain and monsters and witches and Derek Hale. All because Derek Hale's type is psychotic. And apparently, Stiles is stuck right in the very centre of it.





	

On the day that changed everything, the sky above Stiles’ head had been a stunning and glimmering shade of blue, with barely a wisp of white cloud lingering on the horizon. It had been a perfect summer day, like the whole town had been blessed by some benevolent deity of weather. The air was like a warm sea, bathing Stiles in sunshine.

Or it had been, until he entered Benny’s Diner to get some curly fries. When he came out fifteen minutes later, with a mouthful of crispy deliciousness, the sky had filled with dark and angry grey clouds. The air had become charged, as though a thunderstorm were brewing. Stiles had been forced to run to his jeep, when there had been a sudden downpour of rain.

The rain was pouring down, filling the street with deep and dirty rising water. He sat in the jeep shivering, shaking the water from himself like a dog. His phone lit up and music filled every part of his previously silent jeep.

He answered. “Hey Scott.”

Scott, sounding his usual mix of overreaction and hopeful puppy dog, cried: “Dude, what’s with the weather?”

Stiles scowled at the rain, then at the mess it had made of his canvas sneakers and his hair. “Yeah, it totally sucks.”

“What?” said Scott. “It sucks? That’s your comment?”

“Yeah,” said Stiles. “It’s a flash flood, dude, that’s all. It happens.”

Scott paused. “Uh, are you on the corner of Duke and Main?”

Stiles glanced around, briefly. That was exactly where he was,. “Yeah,” he said, “how did you…”

“Stiles, go somewhere else.”

Stiles glanced around. “Dude, I’m not driving in this!”

“Just do it,” ordered Scott.

Stiles hung up and threw his cell on the passenger seat. He started the engine and drove off. Carefully, he drove for ten minutes in the pouring rain, then stopped and called Scott again.

“I moved, it’s still raining,” he said when Scott picked up.

Scott took too long to answer.

“What?” Stiles demanded.

Scott breathed in. “Dude, the rain just followed you.”

“It what?” squeaked Stiles. He looked through the curtain of rain and saw patches of blue sky.

“Stiles?” asked Scott, sounding alert and concerned. “Can you get to Deaton’s?”

“I don’t know,” said Stiles. He may have been going mad, but he was pretty sure he could see something moving outside. More than something, some things.

“Dude,” whispered Stiles, “I think I’m being surrounded by some creepy rain monsters.”

“What?” exclaimed Scott. “Hold on, I’ll be right there.”

“Hurry the hell up, Scott!” said Stiles, the water around his keep was getting deeper.

“We are coming,” hissed something outside Stiles’ jeep. “We are coming.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” said Stiles. “Right around now would be good, Scott.”

Stiles paused, waiting for a reply. With a heavy feeling of doom he realised the line was dead.

“We are coming.”

“Great I’m going to be killed by an over sexed monster,” muttered Stiles to himself.

He did the only natural thing; he ducked into the foot well. The rain on the roof had become so loud that it could have been Niagara Falls. Stiles was beginning to doubt the jeep’s ability to withstand the onslaught. And he could hear them, whatever they were. Their voices were gruff like grumbling thunder, mumbling their cliché over and over again, their feet shuffling as loud as the rain. When they climbed onto the jeep, the metal creaked ominously. Stiles whimpered.

“Now would be a great time to save me, Scott,” he mumbled.

Something landed heavily on the roof of his jeep, its feet were denting the surface.

“You are so paying for any damage!” exclaimed Stiles, his instinct of self-preservation ebbing away. Nobody abused his jeep but him! He angrily grabbed his baseball bat from its place under his seat. And was immediately torn between going out and confronting whatever the fuck was making it rain on him and staying whimpering inside his relatively dry jeep. He mulled over the decision, pragmatically. Surely Scott was pretty close if he had seen the rain follow Stiles. He wouldn’t be long.

With a loud crash of metal, something else landed on his jeep. Stiles shouted the prices of a new paint job at the dipping metal over his head and totally almost managed not to scream when a vast shadow fell across the windshield.

A roar reverberated through the air. Not just any roar, a werewolf roar.

“About fucking time!” exclaimed Stiles. He was going to let Scott win when they next played Mario Karts.

The door to his jeep was yanked open and Stiles realised it wasn’t Scott who had come to save him. It was Derek Hale. A very wet Derek Hale. Stiles mind immediately headed south into an ‘R’ rated place; the wet t-shirt Derek was wearing was very tight.

“You’re back,” was all he could think to say.

Derek didn’t reply, because he was an antisocial dick. Instead he asked: “Does this piece of crap still drive?”

“Uh, yes,” Stiles cried, massively offended on the behalf of his beautiful jeep.

“Then drive. Now!”

As he spoke, Derek leapt into the passenger seat and on top of Stiles’ phone.

Stiles hesitated. “Scott…”

“…will figure it out,” snapped Derek. “Now drive before they wake up.”

“Who are…?”

“Stiles! Questions can wait!”

“Okay, Sourwolf,” Stiles grumbled, disappointed to have repeated an old insult, but too grumpy for creativity.

Derek glared at him, pretty much daring Stiles to question his authority. Stiles glared back, before propelling the jeep forward through the water. He was pretty impressed it had started.

“So…” said Stiles, pushing his foot further down on the gas. He was relieved to see the rain was getting lighter. “How’ve you been?”

Derek grunted.

“I mean I wasn’t sure,” said Stiles, somewhat sarcastically. “You know, after the whole nearly dying thing in Mexico and the never calling or writing thing. Not cool, dude, by the way.”

“You mean after you barely spoke to me for a year?” Derek asked, his grumpy voice even more grumpy.

Stiles went to argue. They’d shared a vehicle on the way to Mexico, but that probably didn’t count. But he’d spent quite a lot of time with no control over his body, so Derek was being totally unfair. And anyway…

“Are you actually talking to me about social niceties? Like you offered us a drink every time we went to your loft, didn’t you?” He was going for maximum sarcasm. It came out bitter.

“Forget it,” said Derek. “Go right.”

“Uh, Deaton’s is left,” Stiles replied.

“Yes and I told you to go right,” said Derek, shooting another look at him.

“And why should I trust you?” asked Stiles, although he was already turning the wheel right.

“How about I get out and leave you to deal with this on your own?”

Stiles swore and pushed the jeep forward more. “I held your werewolf ass up in a pool for over two hours, dude. It’s time you returned the favour.”

Derek grunted, his gaze directed forward.

A moment of awkward silence followed, as Derek reverted back to his usual grumpy, man-pain self. Stiles, however, was not good at silence.

“Where are we going?”

Derek groaned. “Out of town.”

“What, where?”

“Just…out.”

Stiles snorted. “Helpful and descriptive as always. Where have you been?”

Derek glared. “What? Because it matters?”

Stiles flailed. “You just went off.”

“So?”

“So?” Stiles repeated. “So…total dick move, Derek.”

“Why?” said Derek, but it wasn’t a question. “Nobody needed me here.”

“That’s not true, dude,” said Stiles, gripping the wheel so tight that his knuckles turned white. “My Dad nearly died, Scott did die and I…I did something I’m not proud of.”

Derek frowned, but his mouth was twitching slightly. “You seem fine now.”

“I would have been even better if you’d stuck around,” replied Stiles. “We’re a dysfunctional team, remember? We stop Scott from doing stupid things and have each other’s back.”

“We were,” replied Derek, a hard look in his eyes. “Not anymore.”

That irritated Stiles more than anything. More than every word Harris had ever said to him. He bit down hard from replying with the ‘whose fault is that?’ that nearly slipped out and allowed the silence to wash over them again.

They went out of town, as Derek had directed. Past the pleasant houses on the outskirts, past the turning to the preserve. And all the way it rained like the apocalypse. Stiles’ phone began to ring, the ringtone he’d ascribed to Scott disturbing the silence. Derek cancelled the call.

“Dude!” protested Stiles. “That was Scott!”

Derek threw the phone out the window.

“Dude!” exclaimed Stiles again.

“Just shut up and drive,” ordered Derek.

“That phone was brand new.”

“Well you can turn round and go get it,” said Derek. “If you want to die.”

“What is with you?” asked Stiles. He swerved the jeep and parked it at the side of the empty road.

“I can’t talk about this right now,” grunted Derek. “They’re listening.”

Rain was hammering down hard on the jeep’s front window. It was then Stiles saw the haunted look in Derek’s eyes. They were even more haunted than they used to be. Stiles reached out and hesitantly touched Derek’s shoulder.

“What happened to you?”

“Just…drive…”

The words were a croak, broken. It was scarier than any grumpiness or rage Derek had ever showed. It made Stiles shiver. He turned the ignition again and pulled back onto the highway.

“So I take it, this isn’t just you rescuing me from rain monsters?” said Stiles.

Derek didn’t reply. It forced Stiles to rethink his previous words.

“Who’s listening?” he asked, in a fearful whisper. “I mean…is it…is it the rain monsters?”

Derek didn’t reply.

Stiles swallowed. “Where are we going?”

Derek shook his head.

As his anxiety grew, Stiles asked. “Should I run away from you?”

Derek looked out the window, though surely all he could see was his reflection and the rain. His quiet answer sent Stiles’ heart racing.

“You can’t.”

Stiles scowled, but continued to drive, an idea forming in his head. He let out a sigh as he saw a sign for Eden Falls underpass and headed towards it. He shivered in relief as the car entered the underpass and was lit up with fluorescent light. Stiles swerved into a segment of Highway meant for broken down cars. The rain was completely gone, seemingly waiting for them on the other side of the bridge.

“Can they hear us now?” asked Stiles.

“No,” said Derek.

“Right. Spill,” demanded Stiles.

“It’s witches. The clouds are spelled to follow us,” said Derek, his eyes watching cars pass them. “Their servants travel in the rain and report back to them.”

“Like the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz?” asked Stiles.

“Yes,” said Derek through gritted teeth.

Stiles began to laugh hysterically. “That’s the biggest piece of crap I’ve ever heard. We’re being pursued by the wicked witch of the west and her flying monkeys!”

But it seemed less funny when figures began to gather at the mouth of the tunnel. Stiles swore and Derek nodded in agreement, which Stiles thought was a maturing in Derek’s communication skills.

“Get back on the Highway,” said Derek. “If they think we’re staying…”

“What do they want?” Stiles interrupted.

Derek paused before he said “I don’t know.”

Stiles scowled, because that was some especially shit lying. “Dude, just because I’m human, it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid because you’re human,” said Derek. “That view is based on experience of you personally.”

“Fuck you!” said Stiles.

“Stiles…”

“You’re such a massive…”

“Stiles, rain monsters.”

Stiles jumped on the gas. He dangerously swung the jeep round and did a U-turn. They escaped the tunnel and Stiles was relieved it wasn’t raining.

“What psychotic woman did you sleep with?” demanded Stiles.

“I didn’t!” interjected Derek.

“When things like this happen there’s always a psychotic woman involved,” said Stiles. “Kate, Ms Blake… just be honest dude!”

Derek clenched his fists hard. “There was a coven in New York, they… they found I could transform into a wolf,’ he said, finally using his words. “They collect Supernatural creatures. They collected me.”

Stiles swallowed hard. “So the last six months…”

“I’ve been in a cell,” said Derek.

“Oh.” Because that pretty much stole Stiles’ righteous anger at being abandoned.

Derek merely continued to glare at the dashboard, “I escaped and they followed. I guess they just figured I’d come back to the old pack.”

“Oh,” said Stiles again. “So…”

“So we run,” said Derek.

Which made sense, but didn’t.

“But what about the others? They’ll just go after them, now.”

Derek looked shifty, well shiftier than usual. “No they…they won’t.”

Stiles gave Derek his best ‘you’re stupid’ look, which felt good because it was normally the other way around. “If they’re after the pack…”

“Stiles, just…they won’t go after them. Just trust me.”

He snorted in response to that. “You just threw my phone out of the window.”

“Trust me.”

So Stiles kept driving. The silence was deafening and Stiles kept shifting, feeling sticky in his drying clothes.

“There’s a turning back to Beacon Hills in five minutes,” said Stiles.

“We can’t,” stated Derek.

“Yes, we can,” said Stiles. “Doing things alone gets you killed or captured, Derek. Haven’t you learnt this yet?”

“But the pack…”

Stiles glanced over once again at Derek, who looked strangely vulnerable.

“We’re stronger together, we’ll figure it out,” stated Stiles. “You have to trust me. We can’t keep running, we’ll run out of gas. And my Dad will freak out.”

Derek looked straight at him, as if trying to see straight into his soul with his kaleidoscope green eyes.

“Okay,” he said.

“Finally!” exclaimed Stiles. “Do you have your cell on you? I think it’s time we introduced those rain monkey freaks to a true alpha and a banshee.”

***

They tore through the streets of Beacon Hills, the wheels turning fast and nearly skidding more than once. Derek grumbled about Stiles’ driving and Stiles just rolled his eyes at him. Something as mundane as a traffic accident wasn’t really high on his priorities at the minute.

The animal clinic was dry when they first saw it, but as they got closer the clouds rolled over them and encased the building and the jeep in rain. Everything around was drenched within seconds.

Stiles dumped the jeep out front and fell out. Derek leapt out more gracefully and grabbed Stiles’ shoulder to help him along on his way. They tumbled into the clinic and slammed the door shut behind them, but the glass didn’t hide the figures that meandered through the rain at the edge of their vision.

“I…hate…witches!” moaned Stiles.

He turned and was relieved when he saw Scott striding out from the back area of the vet’s surgery. He was wolfed out and his eyes were glowing red.

“Thank the fricking lord!” said Stiles.

“Are you okay?” asked Scott, jumping over the counter and catching a hold of Stiles. He examined him with concern in his red eyes.

“Fine, bar the fact I’m now emotionally scarred and may never take a shower again.”

Scott turned and looked at Derek, his eyes flashing red again. Derek’s flashed blue in response.

“I didn’t want you involved,” said Derek, as way of explanation.

“Dude, you’re pack. We’re all involved in this,” said Scott. “Now what do you know? Where did you go?”

Stiles waved vaguely at Derek and Derek explained, in a rushed whisper. Stiles watched and listened; this time he saw the false expression and the hurrying over certain details. Derek was lying! He had no proof though, except for some small discrepancies.

“I thought you said they wanted you because you turned into a wolf.”

Derek stared. “Uh…”

“But now you say it was because you’re a Hale? And they’ve heard of your Mum?”

“Uh…”

At that moment Deaton decided to make an appearance. He seemed unsurprised to see Derek and Stiles. He fixed his eyes on the rain demons throwing themselves unsuccessfully at the Vet’s surgery window. They kept bouncing backwards before they hit the glass, seemingly being deflected by some invisible force field.

“I see you’ve upset the Lawrence coven,” said Deaton, looking fascinated by the rain monsters.

“I think upset is an understatement,” said Stiles. “They’ve sent a whole fricking army of rain monsters after us.”

Deaton looked thoughtfully at Derek. “Brooklyn still doesn’t take rejection well, even after two hundred years.”

Stiles turned angrily to Derek, his mouth open. “Dude!”

Derek looked at the floor, the tips of his ears going pink. It looked like Deaton had hit the nail right on the head. Stiles knew there had to be a psychotic woman involved somewhere.

“Did you sleep with her and not call? Because she’s raining down justice on your ass right now,” said Stiles.

“I didn’t sleep with her,” muttered Derek.

Scott looked between the three of them, confused by what was going on. “I don’t get it.”

“I didn’t sleep with her,” Derek repeated again, as if that was most the important fact.

Stiles shook his head. “Were you even in a cell?”

“Yes,” said Derek, through gritted teeth. “She put me in there after I refused her.”

Stiles threw his hands up in the air. “Why did you refuse her? She’s probably your usual type: beautiful, psychotic and murdery. Couldn’t you have just taken one for the team, just this once?”

“No,” spat out Derek, a furious expression on his face.

Scott scratched his head, still confused. “I don’t understand. If the witch is angry at Derek, why are the rain monsters after Stiles?”

Derek’s facial muscles were so tense, they could shatter diamonds. “She just wants revenge,” he said, “she thinks she can get it through the pack.”

Deaton and Scott just looked at Derek, making no move to reply. Stiles didn’t decide to fill the silence, it just was his natural reaction to silence.

“So she’s a confused and delusional witch,” he told the room, “Because Derek’s dedication to the pack is proven by his … uh… drawing a blank, here.”

No one helped him out.

“So, is there like a mountain ash for witches? Like a powder that repels them? Or can water shrink them?! That would be awesome! I mean, I think burning at the stake might be going a bit far…”

“Stiles,” Deaton interrupted, “I forgot to feed Snuffles. He’s in the end cage on the right.”

“Uh… I don’t actually work here,” said Stiles.

“The feed is in the …”

“Seriously, Scott’s the one that works for you.”

“It would really be helpful, Stiles.”

Stiles stared at Deaton because he was being totally weird. And elusive. And…

“Are you trying to send me out of the room so you can talk to Derek without me?” Stiles asked.

Another moment of silence, Derek still not looking at anyone, Scott trying to look everywhere, Deaton quietly rolling his eyes.

“Oh my God, you’re trying to send me out of the room on some… some… fool’s errand!” Stiles cried, in shock and anger.

“Stiles, the cat,” said Deaton.

Stiles stared only a moment longer before he went to feed a cat. A cat that was obviously recently fed. And didn’t like Stiles. By the time he got back, Scott had also been sent on an unimportant errand, and Derek was glaring at the floor.

Deaton nodded at Stiles.

"So..." said Stiles, trying to break the awkward tension, “Do we have a plan, or am I going to have to live in the vets for the rest of my life?"

"Derek," said Deaton, in a way that suggested he knew more than Stiles. "He needs to know."

"Needs to know what?" asked Stiles, narrowing his eyes at the two of them.

Deaton looked to Derek, prompting. Derek did not look happy. “We can’t destroy them. If we killed all of the ones out there, there would just be more within the hour. They won't stop coming until they achieve their mission."

"Which is?" questioned Stiles.

Another silence followed. "To kill you," Derek finally grunted out, a constipated expression on his face.

Stiles flailed wildly. "Why do they want to kill me? That’s so unfair! I'm not the one who rejected their witchy master."

"The New York Coven think you're my," Derek paused, as if the next word out of his mouth was causing him physical pain to say, "…my boyfriend."

"Ha, ha," said Stiles laughing awkwardly, he slapped Derek's muscly shoulder. "You've developed a sense of humour whilst you've been away, big guy."

"Stiles, he's telling the truth," said Deaton, calmly. Stiles was pretty sure the bastard was enjoying this. He always did enjoy watching everyone but Scott squirm. 

"You kept texting me whilst I was away," said Derek, a miserable expression on his face. "She didn't like it and just made the assumption that you were the reason I was refusing her."

Stiles paled, remembering the texts he'd sent Derek during his absence. It had become some sort of weird compulsion. It had begun during all the Theo stuff where he'd just started with the odd few, mostly ranting about Theo or moaning about how trusting Scott was. Then there'd been a dark period where he just needed the comfort that someone was out there reading his texts. He'd sat outside his Dad's hospital room and sent text after text, desperately needing someone who wasn't Scott. Not to mention the texts during the brief month he dated Lydia, before it just felt too weird for the both of them. He'd just assumed Derek had lost his phone and wasn't getting them.

"Oh crap," said Stiles softly.

Deaton didn’t respond. He just waited patiently for Stiles to regain his composure.

“So, what do we do?” he demanded.

“Run,” said Derek.

“They’ll just follow,” Deaton interceded.

“We talk to this witch, then,” said Stiles.

“No,” Derek snapped.

So, maybe during Derek’s absence, Stiles had forgotten just how irrational and annoying the werewolf could be. “Oh, so we just sit here and do nothing until I get eaten by rain monsters and you can go be the concubine of a psycho like you so obviously crave to be?”

“Witches are just like normal people,” said Deaton, “They’re all individuals who happen to have the ability to do magic. Lots will just get a job and have a family and use their magic to help with their chores, while some will use their magic to revenge any perceived slight. We can’t predict what she will do unless we know her. What do you know of her Derek?”

Derek shrugged, so Stiles answered for him.

“I suspect, as she wants Derek, she secretly wants to murder vast numbers of people.”

“Or maybe she just found your texts as annoying as everyone else finds five minutes in your company,” Derek replied.

“So, are you aiming for a fascist dictator next? Or are you going straight for the bringer of the apocalypse?”

“This is not helping,” Deaton interrupted before Derek could come up with another lame attempt at an insult. Stiles felt a slight victory at having had the last word, even if it was only because Deaton had stopped the argument. 

“Derek, has she other motives?”

Derek shrugged. “She was part of a coven. She was fascinated with me, but she never seemed, you know, evil.”

Stiles glowered, “Are you telling me she never even put you in a cage? Just when I thought you’d started being honest!”

“She did put me in a … cell,” Derek snapped, “She got jealous after the texts started. Then… look does it matter? What do we do?”

They both looked at Deaton, expectantly. The veterinarian sighed. “We talk to her, of course.”

Derek actually flinched. Stiles smirked because he’d been right.

“So call her, Derek,” he said. “Call your ex and we’ll have a chat. We’ll sell her your dick so she doesn’t kill me.”

Derek covered his face.

A knock on the door of the surgery interrupted them, before Stiles could add another stinging barb. He jumped. Scott appeared in the office door.

“There’s a woman at the door,” he said, “She smells like magic. Is it her?”

Derek sniffed. “No,” he said. “It’s Martinique. She’s in the same coven.”

“Can we trust her?” asked Deaton. “Is she here to kill Stiles?”

Stiles surreptitiously checked there were as many werewolves as possible between him and the front door, but Derek was shaking his head.

“Let her in,” he told them, “Martinique isn’t here to kill Stiles. She’s a friend. She’s the only reason I managed to escape.”

Scott crossed his arms and scowled at Derek. Stiles had the urge to hit his head against a wall, having flashbacks of when Scott and Derek were at odds with one another all the time.

"It's fine," said Stiles, laying a reassuring hand on Scott's arm. A little bit of tension ebbed away, but Stiles was annoyed to see Derek was now glaring at Stiles' hand on Scott's arm.

"I'll go get her," said Scott, frowning at Derek.

Stiles let out a dramatic sigh and threw himself down onto the chair behind Deaton's desk. He started to spin around on it, trying to ease some nervous tension. Derek crossed the room at supernatural speed and stopped him.

"Stop," said Derek, but there was none of his usual venom behind the words.

Stiles looked up at him and their eyes met, he offered Stiles silent reassurance. They'd always had an uncanny ability to communicate without words.

"Ah," said a female voice. "You two make quite the pair."

Stiles looked away from Derek and his mouth fell open when he saw the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, (well other than Lydia Martin of course). The woman looked as if she belonged in the pages of Vogue. She had long dark hair and was wearing a long dress that reached the floor. The witch was rocking the whole daughter of the earth thing. Her golden, cat-like eyes were roaming over Stiles like he was an item in a shop she was considering buying.

Stiles let out a snort. "Funny, the last person who said that to us was a psychopath who was trying to kill us."

"You seem attracted to danger magnets," said Martinique, smiling at Derek. "He looks quite pliable. Tell me Derek, is he a good lover?"

"I've been rated eleven out of ten on ratemylover.com," said Stiles, quirking an eyebrow at Derek. "I've never heard my honey bunny complain. I mean there was one time in an elevator where I was climbing all over him and..."

"Stiles!" exclaimed Derek, the tops of his ears going pink.

"Dude! Mental image!" added Scott.

"On a serious note," said Stiles. "Could your angry witch friend call off the rain monsters? Me and Derek are not together, as in never ever and hell would freeze over before that happened."

Martinique smirked at him. "Oh, you are a funny human. Only a fool would believe that story, your feelings for one another are practically dripping off the pair of you - it's intoxicating."

"Someone obviously didn't get their wizarding qualification from Hogwarts," scoffed Stiles, trying to meet Scott's eye and to communicate the levels of craziness he was experiencing from the witch. Scott, however, was too busy looking at Derek and then Stiles, then at Derek and then to Stiles again. He had an expression on his face, as if he'd finally released how to work a complicated maths equation. Scott's mouth fell open.

"Now isn't the time," said Deaton, as if he could read Scott's mind.

"Lydia's here," said Derek suddenly, hearing something that Stiles obviously couldn't. He didn’t look happy about it. Stiles shrugged at Scott, hoping for some sense of camaraderie over the weird Derek behaviour, but Scott was no use whatsoever.

“Is she being eaten by rain monsters?” Stiles asked.

“No,” Scott cried, with obvious distress at the question.

Martinique stepped forward and coughed to get everyone’s attention. “Do you have a plan, Derek?”

Derek looked distressed and put upon, then shrugged. Stiles decided to take pity and answer for him. “Yeah, Derek’s never been that good at plans. He’s more of a fight and flight kinda guy.”

With his own cough, and a few dramatic steps, Deaton brought the attention back to himself. “Tell me about this Brooklyn,” he instructed.

Martinique shrugged, “She’s powerful, and she’s in love with Derek. What else do you want to know?”

Deaton folded his arms, “Has she killed before? Has she had an obsession of this nature with another man? How much knowledge of werewolves does she have?”

They were all admittedly good questions, but Martinique merely shrugged. “I do not believe so. She is a newer member of the coven. Had she been more established, it would have been difficult to go against her.”

Deaton looked at her longer. Derek eased his weight between his feet awkwardly. Stiles waited for a better idea to come to him. Scott looked earnestly at Martinique.

“You wouldn’t have let someone you knew was a murderer join your coven, though, right?” he asked, a nervous puppy.

Martinique shrugged. “Is murder always a wrong choice?”

Scott’s eyes widened, “Yes!” he cried.

Lydia stormed in, as though she were bringing the outside weather with her; the darkness and the clouds, like she were an angel of darkness. Stiles held in his poetical adoration and his non-vocal adoration that he had on good authority was massively creepy and a huge turnoff. He settled for a quiet sigh that held his unspoken love and admiration.

“Why did I have to walk through a tropical storm to get here?” Lydia demanded, understandably angry. Her hair was drenched and clung limply to her head. She was appropriately proud of her great golden mane, and even though Stiles knew nothing could diminish her beauty, he was only more impressed by her anger at its less than perfect appearance.

“Derek got cursed by a witch,” he explained.

“More accurately, you got cursed by a witch,” said Deaton. “Derek could leave now and not be troubled any further.”

“Rain monsters,” Stiles said over him, “It’s a whole thing. You’ll catch up.”

Martinique stepped towards Lydia, and Stiles took a moment to admire the two impressive women facing up, wondering whether they would become friends. The two of them could have the power to rule the world, or scare Stiles to death.

“Who are you?” Martinique asked, instead of greeting.

Lydia’s lip quirked with irritation, “As the newcomer, surely it’s your place to introduce yourself, before demanding information from others,” she said.

“Martinique, the mad witches’ coven friend, Lydia, the formidable banshee, Lydia the formidable banshee, Martinique, the mad witches’ coven friend,” said Stiles, carelessly.

At that moment Deaton stepped in to explain the actual situation to Lydia. Stiles let his attention wonder, checking on Derek who had begun to glare at the floor as though it had personally wronged him. By the time Deaton had finished, Martinique had made her way over to Derek and stood beside him.

Lydia was looking thoughtful, “Have we got a way of contacting this woman? A number, or a magic mirror or something?”

“Are you suggesting a parley, Lydia Martin?” Stiles asked. “Because that’s a real suggestion, and it’s better than anything else that’s happened so far.”

Martinique shook her head. "Brooklyn doesn't want a parley, she just wants Derek with no obstacles."

Stiles let out a snort. "I'm not an obstacle. She's welcome to him. I'll happily step out of the way and let her have him."

Scott's eyebrows shot up. "Dude, can I have a word? In private?"

Stiles looked at Scott and nodded and allowed himself to be lead into where they kept all the animals. Scott closed the door and Stiles noticed Snuffles the cat was glaring resentfully at him from his cage.

"What's up?" asked Stiles.

Scott raised his hand up to silence him, before he lowered it. "I don't think they can hear us."

"Okay?" said Stiles.

"Stiles, do you realise you've just lied to that witch?" asked Scott. "I could hear it in your heartbeat. Stiles, do you like Derek? Because if you do, this situation has totally become more complicated." 

Stiles started to laugh, he'd never heard something so stupid. "No."

Scott's mouth fell open. "Lie."

"Fine, I like him as a friend and a friend only," said Stiles. "The witch is welcome to him, they can get married and have ten angry and psychotic children with weird eyebrows. None of that would bother me."

"Stiles," said Scott, looking serious. "You've just lied again."

"Oh my God!" moaned Stiles. "No, no, no. There has to be something wrong with your werewolf senses. How can I like Derek?"

Scott shook his head sombrely at him. 

Stiles sat down heavily on the floor, trying to absorb this brand new piece of information. Sure he'd admired Derek, who wouldn't? The guy was hot, like super-hot. He was the superman of hotness. But the fact he liked Derek, the grumpy former alpha sour wolf - that was new.

"How long have I liked Derek?" asked Stiles.

Scott frowned. "I don't know, but it kind of makes sense. The two of you have always had something, but I thought it was just attraction or something."

"Attraction?" asked Stiles, for the first time in his life he was speechless.

"Well you both smelled...funny...each time you argued," said Scott awkwardly. "But I thought it was just, you know, hormones or something."

Stiles let out a moan. "I'm not meant to like Derek, I'm meant to like Lydia."

"You and Lydia tried the whole dating thing," said Scott. "But it didn't work. I thought the two of you would be perfect together, but I was wrong."

Stiles shuddered at the memory. "It was like trying to bone my own sister by the end."

"Maybe you and Derek wouldn't be like that," said Scott thoughtfully. "The two of you argue, but maybe that's why it would work. With Malia it didn't work because she liked you too much and with Lydia it didn't work because you liked her too much. You and Derek don't like each other at all, so maybe that's why it might work."

"Scott," said Stiles, desperately for him to stop talking. "This is crazy. A crazy witch is after me because she thinks I'm in love with Derek and he's in love with me. And now you're telling me she's right and the two of us should bone."

"Yeah," said Scott, looking quite surprised with himself. "Yeah."

"You've lost it," said Stiles, shaking his head. He had finally decided that denial was the best course of action. He didn't love Derek, he didn't even like Derek! There was no way Scott was right. Scott was never right about anything. Scott thought Theo was trustworthy. Nope, he was definitely wrong again.

"Deaton's coming," said Scott.

Stiles stood up quickly, just as the vet came through the door.

"I think it's time we called it a night," said Deaton softly, looking between the two of them knowingly.

"And how am I meant to do that?" asked Stiles. "I have a crazy witch and rain demons trying to kill me."

Deaton smiled at him. "I have an idea."

***

An hour later Stiles was lying in his own bed staring at the ceiling. Apparently Deaton had some special type of Mountain Ash that temporarily kept witches and rain monsters out. He was quite relieved, he needed a break from this situation and that Martinique gave him the creeps. She kept staring at him, as if she could see something everyone else couldn't.

"Your thinking is keeping me awake," said Derek's voice in the darkness.

Yeah, Derek Hale was in his room. The same Derek Hale he had apparently been in love with for quite a while. Some high up being sure had a sick sense humour. It was driving Stiles insane being in the same room of him after everything Scott had said to him. He kept having thoughts, not very PG rated thoughts at that. It hadn't helped that his Dad had made comments about using protection and being safe when he'd called him to say Derek was staying the night. Did he have some sort of radar or something?

"You could always go sleep at your loft," said Stiles, desperate for some type of alone time to process what he was feeling.

"I'm not leaving you," grunted Derek. "This is my fault."

Stiles turned and could see the dark outline of Derek lying on his floor. "You didn't have to come back here, Scott and Deaton will figure something out."

"They shouldn't have to figure anything out," said Derek.

"Dude, you could run and start a new life," said Stiles, trying to ignore how that idea caused him more pain than he would ever admit. "We'd all understand. Just make sure you keep in touch by text or something this time."

"You asked me to come home," said Derek quietly, from his place on the floor. "In your texts."

"We were all going through a bit of a rough time," said Stiles. "I kind of just, well, missed having you as my ally. We've always been on the same page when it comes to Scott and some of his more stupid ideas. I just think the last year would have been different if you were around."

"I'd have come, if I could," said Derek softly.

Stiles felt a lump rise to his throat. "I killed someone,” he confessed, “it was self-defence but I still did it. It was like I was the nogitsune again for a brief few minutes. I regret it every day." Hot tears were now sliding down his cheeks.

"That wouldn't have happened if I'd been here," said Derek. "It wasn't your fault."

"How could you have stopped it?" asked Stiles, angrily rubbing away the tears.

"I would have killed them," said Derek.

Stiles swallowed hard. Surprised by Derek's words and how much they meant to him. He didn't need to be a werewolf to know Derek wasn't lying, he meant it. It was probably one of the most important things anyone had ever said to him.

Stiles climbed out the bed and slid onto the floor, he crawled over to Derek and settled down next to him. Just needing to be close to another human being and hear them breathing. Derek shuffled a little closer to him and threw the blanket over Stiles, so it covered the two of them. His hand found Stiles' in the darkness and the two silently lay there just holding hands, until Stiles drifted off to sleep.

***

Wind seemed to encircle Stiles, a storm dragging rain across his skin and tugging at his clothes. The sky looked like a painting by Turner, a swirling mess of darkness, greys and blacks and blues and purples. Clouds as big as mountains, interrupted by occasional lightening that only highlighted the blackness, and a circle of shadows.

The shifting figures loomed threateningly through the rain, their bulky outlines clear even in the darkness.

Stiles spun, searching for an escape, a way out, anything. He was alone, surrounded by rain monsters and darkness. The rain was soaking his clothes and hair and skin and the cold was creeping up on him, making him shiver. He called out for his friends, for Derek or Scott, for someone to protect him. There came no answers.

Then there was a glow. Faint embers, glowing. Out of place, like a laugh at a funeral. It was no comfort. Its orange brightness was wrong in the violence of the storm, unnatural, and yet it was beautiful too. Stiles was drawn to it, the piercing sight pulling him forward, through the storm. And the monsters shifted around him.

The wind was guiding him now, helping him along, pushing him towards the glow. He went with it, allowed himself to be bundled along by the power of the weather. He had no choice, and the glow called to him.

The glow brightened, the intensity increasing and the warmth spreading. Stiles almost craved the light now, the presence, whatever it was that wasn’t the monsters or the cold. Soothingly, it called and Stiles followed. And as he did the monsters closed in.

Suddenly the monsters were between him and the light. They penned him in, so close and frightening. They were shadows no more, now their features were becoming clearer, the doughy malformed faces, the thickset brows, bulbous noses. Their brawny arms were tense, meaty fists ready to tear and crush and beat Stiles into a pulpy mess.

“No,” Stiles breathed, “Please.”

He wanted to back away but there was nowhere to go. He wanted to run but there was no escape.

“You can’t win, brat,” sneered an eldritch voice, too close.

“I haven’t done anything!” Stiles cried.

“You can’t have him! He’s mine!” The voice was in his ear now, a nasty sound.

Stiles shook his head, denial. “I haven’t done anything!” he repeated.

In Stiles’ ear, the sound of breathing, rushed and rough, grew louder until the words were almost indistinguishable from breath, like the voice’s owner’s whole being was caught up in the meaning of them. “I’m going to kill you.”

Stiles jumped. His heart was roaring in his chest, his body quivering with anxiety, cold sweat pouring from him. Shaking, he tried to get himself under control. He’d managed not to cry out, but that was more from sheer terror than control. His head rang with the sounds of his own body, his breathing, the rattle of his lungs, the booms of his heart, his own fear filled his whole brain, making the outside world seem watery and confusing. It took several minutes for him to gain control, or even realise he was being held against a strong chest.

Derek was sat on his bed, his arms securely folded around Stiles, embracing him. It was at once surreal and glorious. Stiles buried his head in the expanse of chest, as his heartbeat slowed and his breathing calmed and Derek hushed him. Derek was muttering to him, like Stiles was a spooked horse. It was weird and if Stiles didn’t like it so much, he would be freaked out.

Derek’s hand soothed Stiles’ shoulder blade, solid but gentle, and Stiles sleepily breathed in his scent, the hints of soap and shampoo.

“Bad dream?” Derek whispered, a question so quiet it could have not happened.

Stiles breathed some more, before giving a gentle shrug. It hadn’t felt like a dream.

“Okay,” said Derek, “It’s okay, I’m here.” He rubbed Stiles’ shoulders, a caress, “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you.”

And Stiles almost believed him. He wanted to so much. Right now, it felt true. He lifted his face to look at Derek’s. To take in the rough stubble, the pale eyes.

“I’ve got you,” said Derek.

Stiles leaned forward and touched their lips together. Stiles’ eyes fluttered closed and, for a fraction of a second, the world seemed to stand still and everything felt right, perfect even. Derek was frozen for a moment, before his lips began to move with Stiles's. He'd expected Derek's lips to be rough, but they were soft underneath his. Derek's arms pulled him closer, so that their bodies were flush together. Stiles pushed forward, comforted by the heat and closeness of Derek. This was right, the most right it had ever been.

"No!" hissed a voice.

Stiles sprang away from Derek and let out a scream. But Derek wasn't in the bed with him anymore, he'd been replaced by a figure wrapped in bandages. It was the nogitsune. Slowly it opened its ugly mouth.

"He'll never be yours."

He came too gasping for breath, desperate to suck in fresh air. Stiles felt ill and violated. It seemed he couldn't escape what was going on even in his dreams. At least this time he felt as if he were properly awake. He looked around and realised he was sat on his bedroom floor, where he'd fallen asleep, with the blanket pooled around his waist. His hand was still in Derek's. Stiles saw bright eyes watching him in the early morning light.

"Stiles," said Derek sleepily.

"I'm okay," said Stiles, even though he wasn't. He was far from okay. "Bad dream." 

"Do you want me to get you some water?" asked Derek, his hair was messy and sticking up all over the place.

Stiles shook his head, letting the sight of a sleepy looking Derek distract him from the dream, without giving away how adorable he found it. The werewolf looked younger and softer somehow when he was barely awake.

"No, I'm okay," said Stiles. He rolled his shoulders a little, trying to rid himself of the stiffness he had from sleeping on his bedroom floor. "Maybe we should switch to the bed."

Stiles stood up and pulled Derek up with him by their still entwined hands. Derek seemed to put up little resistance when he was sleepy and allowed himself to be led over to the bed and pulled down onto it.

"I like you like this," said Stiles, as he settled back into his bed and pulled the covers over them.

"Hmm," replied Derek. He sleepily put his arms around Stiles and pulled him against his chest, a content noise coming from his chest. He nestled his face in Stiles' bare neck, breathing in his scent.

"Derek," squeaked Stiles, feeling himself turning red and little Stiles immediately springing to attention.

"Go to sleep, Stiles," mumbled Derek, his eyes closed.

"Who knew you were a cuddler?" said Stiles, laughing awkwardly.

"Sleep," demanded Derek.

Stiles let out a fake put-upon sigh, before he changed their positions and snuggled up close to Derek. He totally knew awake Derek was so not going to be happy about this. His sleep personality was totally different from his angry, awake Sourwolf personality. But Stiles wasn't about to let this situation pass him by. He put his ear on Derek's chest and was soothed by the sound of his heartbeat.

"I resent being the little spoon," lied Stiles.

"Shut up," replied Derek.

Stiles fell asleep to the sound of Derek's heart.

***

The sound of the safety being released from a gun was the sound that woke Stiles from his peaceful slumber. It was an odd noise to hear when first waking up, but Stiles was used to odd after all these years of living in Beacon Hills. He was warm and didn't want to come back to reality, but knew he had to, so he untangled himself from octopus arms that seemed to be securely around him, before he opened one eye.

His Dad was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, casually leaning against the door frame, his gun in his hand.

"Morning, Dad," said Stiles, sitting up. It was then he looked down and saw that Derek Hale was in his bed. Shit. When did that happen? No wonder his Dad had that expression on his face.

"Morning, son," said his Dad. "Care to explain why Derek Hale is in your bed and why our entire yard is flooded out? I've spent weeks growing those tomatoes and now they're ruined."

"I'm sorry about your tomatoes," said Stiles, scratching his head.

The Sheriff raised an eyebrow at him. "That's all you're choosing to take from what I've just said?"

Stiles grinned at him. "Pretty much."

"Shouldn't we be talking about the elephant in the room?" said his Dad, signalling towards a sleeping Derek.

"Don't you mean the wolf?" asked Stiles.

"Downstairs in ten minutes, kid, and you better have a good explanation for all of this," said his father, with quiet authority. "And please say you're both wearing clothes."

"We're both wearing clothes," said Stiles.

"Well, thank god for small mercies," replied his Dad.

"I only said that because you told me to say it," said Stiles, unable to resist the opportunity to make his Dad squirm. "I'm completely naked from the waist down under these covers."

His Dad turned a funny shade of red. "Ten minutes!" He slammed the door shut behind him, muttering something to himself about needing therapy and his son's affinity for bringing home supernatural partners.

Stiles began to laugh, but the sound faded from his lips as he looked down and noticed Derek was awake. Derek had his usual constipated expression on his face. This was not going to end well.

"Sorry..." said Stiles lamely.

"This can't happen again," said Derek, sitting up. He had pushed himself as far away as he could from Stiles on the bed.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Nothing happened, dude."

"And it will stay that way," stated Derek. "As soon as this is over, I'm leaving again."

Stiles felt his heart drop out his chest. Of course last night was just a moment of weakness for the two of them, where they'd both just needed comfort. Derek could never feel anything real for a hyperactive spaz like Stiles.

"Fine," said Stiles, jumping out of bed. He headed towards his bedroom door, not even sparing a backwards glance at Derek. "Good morning to you, too, asshole."

He climbed down the stairs cursing Derek in his head. Once a dick always a dick. Who the hell did he think he was? Stiles didn't need him and his bullshit or the insane witch. He got to the kitchen, ready to face his Dad's lecture about having Derek Hale in his bed. Like Derek said, it wouldn't happen again so it was going to be pointless. Stiles didn't think his day could get any worse, until he saw Peter Hale sitting at his kitchen table eating pancakes.

“What the hell?” Stiles demanded.

Peter merely looked at him, smirked, and then went back to his pancakes.

“That was a question,” said Stiles. “It covered all the ‘how the hell did you get out again?’ thing, the ‘what are you doing here?’ thing, and most importantly the ‘what the hell?’ thing!”

“I got him out,” mumbled Derek, slipping into the kitchen behind them.

Stiles gave Derek the angered look that he deserved. “You let him out?” He repeated, arms indicating the sheer frustration he was feeling at the news with huge waves about his head, “You thought, you know what we need when we’ve got a murderous witch out to kill one of us? We totally need a murderous werewolf who has previously tried to kill one of us!”

“I’ve never tried to kill you, Stiles,” Peter sang with mock offence. "In fact the times I've saved you recently is almost in double figures." 

“I’m so not talking to you right now!” Stiles snapped, “And, uh, school, night time, parts of my jeep flying through windows. Ringing any bells?”

Peter tutted, “Oh, that. I didn’t put any actual effort in.”

Stiles flailed, then gave Derek the look of incredulity he deserved. “What the hell, Derek?”

“I needed someone else with enough strength to protect you,” said Derek. “I couldn’t watch you twenty four seven.”

“But… but…” Stiles cried. “That’s… that’s Peter!”

Derek scowled at his feet, but made no defence of his own stupid actions. Stiles turned his glare back onto the mass murderer currently taking liberties with Stiles’ syrup. “Hey!” Stiles shouted.

He grabbed the bottle, because mass murderers did not deserve syrup on their pancakes, but he’d no sooner grabbed it before his own treacherous father had taken it from him and replaced it on the table.

“Stiles,” he said, making Stiles stop trying to rescue the syrup once more from the evil werewolf, “I need an explanation.”

Stiles gave up on the syrup. It was lost to him now, fallen to the enemy. “This is totally not my fault!” he cried.

Apparently his father didn’t believe him. Which was a gross miscarriage of justice. What had Stiles ever done to make his father so mistrustful?

Derek intervened. “It’s my fault,” he said.

The Sheriff took a few moments to look between them with his ‘I’m a member of law enforcement and I don’t trust anyone’ look before he demanded a full explanation. They caught him up over pancakes and coffee. By the end, the looks he was sending Derek were as cold as ice. Which Stiles understood, but felt guilty about.

“Hey, look, it’s nobody’s fault some crazy witch lady thinks Derek’s into me,” he said, “I mean, she’s clearly never met me, or else, you know, she’d know she was wrong. I mean, she’s not that crazy.”

There was a moment of hush, rather than a rush to agree. Apparently, Derek had found an interesting knot in the table. Stiles’ dad, was still glaring at Derek. After a moment, Peter made a tutting sound.

“I can’t believe I thought you were the clever one,” he said.

“Uh… I totally found Scott’s phone, dude,” Stiles snapped. “And by extension Derek. I am the clever one.”

“Stiles…” the Sheriff started, but then halted, and then tried again, “You know… you… uh…”

Stiles assumed he was trying to do his fatherly duty and boost his self-esteem or something equally unnecessary. “So, what was psycho-wolf supposed to actually do in this awesome plan of yours, Derek?”

Derek shrugged.

Stiles sighed, “You’re hereby banned from making plans.”

Peter had the gall to smile at him. It wasn’t exactly nice. “Would you like to hear my ideas, Stiles” he asked, airily. “Or were you having too much fun insulting us?”

“It’s always fun insulting you, Peter,” Stiles replied, “but I guess there’s no need to get them all out at once. I can save some for later.”

“I look forward to them,” Peter told him quietly, his voice so quiet and honest that Stiles blinked and didn’t think of a reply in time. Peter moved on before he could. “I say we draw her out and take her down.”

“Take her down… meaning …” Stiles prompted.

“We don’t kill people, Hale,” the Sheriff interrupted forcefully.

“I was under the impression that law enforcement kill people regularly,” said Peter, “If they are posing an imminent threat to a member of the public. Wouldn’t you agree that this little rain monster spell is posing a very immediate threat to Stiles’ life? If they were a bomb or a machine gun, wouldn’t the person wielding them be shot?”

“I would try to avoid it,” said the sheriff.

“Of course,” said Peter. “So, when we’ve drawn her out, I’ll give you five minutes to talk to her. If she doesn’t call off her monsters, I get to rip her throat out.”

“You won’t get close enough to rip her throat out,” Derek told his uncle, voice a quiet rumble of thunder on the horizon.

Peter pulled a small sachet from somewhere on his person. One moment his hands were empty, then they moved, then there was a sachet between his fingers. Stiles might have been impressed had he not been overly irritated by the showing off.

“What is that?” his Dad asked, apparently taking werewolf super speed less to heart.

Which should totally have been Stiles’ question.

“It’s an herb,” said Peter.

“And you’re a jerk,” said Stiles. “Oh, sorry, I thought we were saying totally true but completely useless things to each other. Not to mention inadequate in levels of detail.”

"It will incapacitate a magic user," said Peter, "Well, incapacitate the magic. And without magic, isn't this witch just a woman with low self-esteem and a poor taste in men?"

Stiles reached for the packet, curious as hell. "If it incapacitates her magic, then surely we don't need to kill her..."

But Peter was shaking his head, "Only lasts a few minutes at a time. This much, if we catch her by surprise, could slow her down for half an hour, maximum." 

"Enough to maybe talk her down," said the Sheriff. "It could work."

"It would have to be Derek," Stiles said, thoughtfully, "As bait. Or me, but..."

"You wouldn't be fast enough," Peter told him.

"Someone to bring out enough emotion from her to get her off guard," the Sheriff supplied.

"And we'll have Scott look out for Stiles," said Derek.

"Uh, no, you're not going after a witch who's obsessed with you on your own," Stiles snapped. "Scott is totally going with you."

Derek grumbled, loudly but inarticulately.

"Liam can look out for him," said Stiles' Dad. "And I'm armed."

"Liam's a kid," Derek snapped. 

Without waiting for even a pause, Peter sighed. "Oh very well," he said, "I'll stay with Stiles. I miss all the fun."

"Err...no you won't," said Stiles. He looked at Derek and his Dad for reassurance and didn't like the way they were both avoiding making eye contact with him. "You can't seriously be considering..."

***

An hour later Stiles found himself alone with a zombie werewolf. He really didn't think much of his Dad's parental decisions recently and Derek hadn't even looked at him as they’d left the house. They were both traitors! His Dad was totally going to be living on cauliflower, his least favourite vegetable, for the next six months.

"You don't seem very happy," Peter remarked, an evil glint in his eye.

"I wonder why," said Stiles, wondering if there was some way he could trick him into leaving.

Peter let out a long suffering sigh. "If you'd taken me up on my offer, none of this would be happening."

"Offer?" asked Stiles.

"To become a werewolf," said Peter. "I think we'd have worked very well together. We certainly wouldn't have made a lot of Scott's poor decisions."

Stiles snorted. "Because the whole dead pool thing was such an inspired idea. Tell me, have you ever repaid the millions you owe Derek yet?"

"I think you'll find I was in a coma," said Peter, smoothly. "I had little input on that plan. If I had, everyone on that list would have been dead. I don't do things by halves, Stiles." 

"Of course you don't," said Stiles. He wondered what he had done to deserve being stuck in his house with Peter.

"You smell of frustration," said Peter, eyeing him curiously. "Have you and my nephew had a lovers tiff? Or is he using the whole tragic existence thing he has going on to punish himself by not claiming you for himself? He should really hurry up, other wolves would be happy to have you as a lover."

"Derek and I aren't lovers," stated Stiles. He flung his hands into the air and knocked a glass off the table.

"No," said Peter. "He has poor decision making skills. I think he gets that from his father’s side. It certainly isn't a trait I share."

Stiles tried to ignore the irony in that statement, but Peter suddenly hushed him and rose from his seat. A few moments later, a knock explained the move.

"Stay here," Peter ordered. He swept off towards the front door, leaving Stiles alone in the kitchen.

"Stay here Stiles," mimicked Stiles. "Miss all the fun, Stiles. Be the helpless human, Stiles. How about no."

Stiles reached under the table and grabbed his baseball bat, he was done being helpless. He stepped towards the backdoor, deciding now was the time to escape and join the action. He could hear Peter fighting somewhere at the front of the house and the sound of furniture being overturned.

He opened the backdoor and slipped out of it into his garden, planning to escape by running through the preserve. For the first time it wasn't raining when he stepped outside. Stiles pulled his hood up, starting to jog out of his garden and into the trees. He could get to Beacon Hills this way and sneak into Deaton's, where they were all meeting.

Without warning, a woman materialised, as if by magic, in front of him, forcing him to skid to a halt. He let out a squawk and slid on some wet mud, crashing to the ground in a mess of limbs. His baseball bat went flying into a pile of leaves. When he got back to his feet he could hear the woman laughing at him.

"Hello, Stiles," said the woman. She of course, like all the women involved with Derek, was beautiful. The witch actually looked like she could be Lydia's older sister, with long curly red hair and big pale eyes.

"You must be Brooklyn," said Stiles, sounding braver than he felt. "I expected you to be more...well...green."

Brooklyn’s eyebrow quirked. "Is that a cultural reference?"

"So..." said Stiles, ignoring the question as his heart beat hard in his chest, "I would love to stay here and chat, but you know...busy, busy...places to be, people to see."

Brooklyn smiled at him. "Did you enjoy my rain beasts? Drusilla said they were a little over the top, but it's been a while since I've let myself have some fun."

"They certainly got my attention," said Stiles.

Brooklyn's face lit up with another smile. "Good."

"So, are you going to kill me?" asked Stiles.

The witched looked confused. "Kill you? Why would I kill you?"

"Well you know," said Stiles. "The whole thinking I'm keeping the man, well, werewolf, of your dreams from you. To be honest, Derek is a total Sourwolf, I'm pretty sure if you spent some time with him you'd change your mind."

"Is Derek still holding a grudge about the whole imprisonment thing?" asked Brooklyn. "It was just a little fun. The Hale family sure know how to keep a grudge." 

Stiles pulled a face. "You sent a storm of rain monsters to kill me, just because he said no. I don't think you can make any comments about holding grudges."

"I didn't send my rain beasts to kill you,” sighed Brooklyn, "Honestly! Humans are so dramatic!"

"Derek totally isn't into me," exclaimed Stiles quickly, hoping she wouldn't cast some type of spell on him. "So the whole killing me thing would be a big waste of your time. The guy is pretty much repulsed by the very idea of me."

Brooklyn frowned. "Is that how you see yourself in Derek's eyes? Interesting. The spell was performed correctly, it couldn't have made a mistake. You're …"

Before she could finish what she was saying, a growl reverberated through the air. Peter Hale leapt into the clearing, his eyes glowing blue.

"About time!" shouted Stiles, for the first time in his life he was happy to see Peter.

"Run," said Peter, before he charged at Brooklyn.

Stiles didn't have to be told twice. He turned away from the two battling supernatural creatures and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. He wasn't going to stick around and be turned into a frog or something.

He ran back towards his house, deciding Scott must be there by now. As he got close he saw another witch was standing in the woods. It was Martinique, Derek's ally. Stiles stopped suddenly, holding his side.

"Peter and Brooklyn," he managed to gasp out, pointing back to where he'd come from.

Martinique didn’t rush off to help as Stiles doubled over, gripping the stitch in his side in a poor attempt to ease the pain.

"You need … to help him," Stiles gasped. "I mean …. I don't care … if he lives or dies, but he's helping … for once … so maybe he deserves a pass on the whole … dying thing for once."

Martinique finally moved, but not towards the fighting. She moved closer to Stiles.

"Where's Scott?" Stiles asked. "He isn't hurt is he? I thought everyone would be here by now."

"You don't need to worry," said Martinique, coldness in her voice.

Stiles stopped, suddenly aware his entire body was trying to warn him that he was in danger. He'd been so busy talking, that he hadn't seen the obvious signs.

"I'll go find them," said Stiles, trying to edge away from the witch. "Derek and Scott are probably looking for me. Unless they're sharpening their claws or deciding who has the bigger side burns. I mean did you know werewolves eyebrows disappear when they change? That's crazy, right?"

"The stupid wolf has left you unattended," said Martinique. "He is careless with the things he loves. He doesn't deserve you. I'm going to make sure you're sent somewhere safe where no one can ever touch you again. Together we will create one of the most powerful covens in America."

"Sorry," said Stiles. "I've already got a position in own my pack, I'm the annoying human sidekick. I'm not really interested in joining any other type of group or coven or cult or whatever. So thanks but no thanks."

"You do not have a choice," hissed Martinique, she raised her hands and the air around them began to move. 

"Wait," Stiles managed to say, before the air around him shifted and everything melted into a blur around him. He closed his eyes, knowing when he opened them he would no longer be in Beacon Hills anymore.

***

He woke up in a very undramatic car. He was strapped in the back seat and sleeping with his head rolling about like a child. His mouth tasted like a gym with no air-conditioning, and his head was foggy. 

“Seriously?” someone was saying, “him?”

“Him,” another somebody confirmed. “Can’t you smell it?”

Stiles presumed they were discussing the taste in his mouth, even though that made no sense whatsoever. “Wha’?” he groaned.

“Hush, little thing,” said the second voice, “Not long now.”

“Buh…” Stiles groaned, because the irritated words he wanted to use were beyond him.

“Really? Is this a joke, Martinique?”

The first voice, sounding completely disgusted, like any one of Lydia Martin’s friends for the first two years of Stiles’ High School career. It was a tone of voice he was very well used to, and focusing on it helped his concentration.

“Is what a joke?” he grunted, though his words were slurred, “Who are you? What?”

There were three of them, one driving, another beside the driver and another beside him. Martinique, whom Derek had claimed as a friend. “You kidnapped me!” Stiles complained, angrily, when he remembered, and thankfully his words were clearer that time.

“You see?” Martinique’s voice was laced with wonder, she'd obviously had a blow to the head, “a sedation spell with huge potency and he’s awake and lucid in minutes. He should have slept for hours.”

“You probably did the spell wrong,” mumbled one of the other witches.

“I could practice on you, if you’d like,” Martinique suggested.

The witch who doubted her flinched. It was clear who was the strongest of these witches.

“Why did you kidnap me?!” Stiles cried, angrily.

“Don’t worry,” said Martinique, “I brought some science with me. I don’t think he’s resistant to drugs.”

“What?!” Stiles cried. He tried to open the door, which was stupid in a car travelling at fifty miles an hour, but there was some kind of child lock on it anyway. “Shit!” he shouted, “Let me out!”

“Now, now Stiles,” Martinique cooed, “don’t worry. You’ll just have a little sleep.”

She was preparing something from her bag, and Stiles knew he had to stop it getting that far. “Wait! Stop!” he cried.

“Just a moment,” said Martinique. “Really, Stiles, you have no patience.”

“You…!” He somehow managed to stop himself. He was unarmed, with a psycho apparently ready to attack him with drugs and shouting insults was not going to help. “You don’t have to drug me, OK?” he tried, calmly. He’d seen his dad talking down bad guys, he could copy that tone of voice, “I’m not … I’m not a threat, I’m so totally not a threat… I… I don’t … just tell me why you’re doing this.”

A bottle appeared in the witch’s hand. Stiles fought down the panic.

“Look, Martinique, I’m not after Derek, I’m not… I mean, don’t kidnap him either, but… I’m not… I’m not a threat!”

“I know,” replied the witch, and a needle appeared in her other hand.

“Shit…” Stiles mumbled, “Look, just… just tell me what you want, okay?”

The witch prepared the needle, like something out of a hospital drama or a medical based horror movie. “We want you, of course,” she said. “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt.”

“But… but… what for? I’m totally useless and worthless and … I’m a human! Like seven billion other people on the planet!”

“Oh, we’re all human, Stiles,” Martinique said, “even Derek, however good his yeti impression is.” She’d filled the needle and held it high, checking for air bubbles.

“Okay, then, I’m normal!” Stiles cried, “I’ve got no strength or power or…”

“Yes you do,” said Martinique. “I could smell it on Derek from the moment I met him when that psycho Brooklyn had him locked up. It only took a very minor memory revealing ritual to find out exactly who it was that smelt like that. Some kid Derek had run away from. Brooklyn’s nonsense provided a very acceptable diversion while I could follow Derek straight to you. Easy as pie.”

“But… I swear, I’ve literally no special skills! I’m okay at Googling stuff, and I write a totally random essay and I do okay at school, but no super powers, no magic, no werewolf senses! I’m so pointless to kidnap! Just… just drop me off somewhere, I’ll hitchhike home and … and … get away from me!”

The needle was coming towards him. The witch gave him a withering look.

“Come on, Stiles. We all want the journey to be stress free, right? You don’t want to spend it getting worked up. Come on.”

“Oh god!” Stiles groaned. He tried to open the window so he could open the door from the outside, but that was on some sort of lock too and there wasn’t enough room to do anything but expect the needle.

In fairness, Martinique hadn’t lied. There was no pain from the needle. It just slipped into his arm with the tiniest prick and then there was nothing to do but wait for the effect.

“Is that… what…?”

“It’s just a sedative, Stiles,” said Martinique. “You’re not going to die, just sleep until we get to our new home.”

Tears were leaking from Stiles’ eyes. He was so pathetic, just sat in a car while someone injected him, barely any fight. Just some pleas and some tears. He was so useless. His eyelids were drooping, like he couldn’t quite gather the energy to keep them open. He groaned.

“It’s okay,” cooed Martinique, “You’ll just have a little sleep. A nice little sleep. When you wake up, we’ll be more powerful than we ever imagined.”

His eye lashes were made of magnets. They were drawn together, and his lungs were heavy rolling things, that he was not consciously controlling. His arms were floppy, they were boneless and drooping. And then he wasn’t in the car anymore.

He was in a bed, with strong arms around him.

“I always knew you were special,” Derek Hale whispered into his ear while caressing his neck with lips and tongue.

“Not so much,” Stiles replied, “I’m just Stiles.”

“There’s never been a just about you,” Derek told him. “You've never been average or normal.”

“I’m abnormal?” Stiles asked, between a laugh and a rebuke.

“Totally,” said Derek, “You are one in ten billion, one in a trillion…”

“Okay, I get it,” Stiles rebuked.

“No, you don’t,” said Derek. “But that’s okay.”

“I’ve been kidnapped by witches,” Stiles said, sadly. “I think they’re going to adopt me and turn me into a mascot.”

“They’re going to use your spark to power their ambitions,” said Derek, “But you figured that out already.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose, “Because this is a dream, you can’t actually tell me anything I don’t know, can you?”

“No,” said Derek, “But I’ll talk more like normal if it helps.”

It was warm in Derek’s arms. Comfortable in a way he’d been searching for with Malia, but a million times better. But it was a dream.

“Are you going to rescue me?” Stiles asked, curiously.

“I’ll almost definitely try,” said Derek. “I’m known for pretending to be all angry at the world, but I seem to protect you. It’s like I do it by default. Like you protect me. It just kind of happens.”

“Now I know you’re my brain,” said Stiles, “Derek has never been so non-succinct.”

“Me Tarzan, you Jane,” said Derek.

Stiles laughed. It didn’t last long. “Are you going to find me before I become the most disappointing battery in history? Or at least since the iPhone 4?”

“I’ve got no way of finding you,” said Derek. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles nodded, “That’s okay, I get it.” He stroked the arms around him, and pushed back against the chest. “This is nice though. We should have done this in real life.”

“Definitely,” said Derek. Which was nice to hear, even if it was imagined.

***

He came round too soon. No longer in the car, now he was lying on a couch in an unfamiliar room. His head had been placed carefully on some pillows. His thoughts ordered quickly. Kidnap, witches, escape routes. He listened hard for anyone nearby, he sat up slowly and got his bearings. There was lighting from warm bulbs, there was furniture and wall paper and, if it weren’t for the chain around his ankle, he would have assumed he were just in a basement TV room like hundreds of homes had.

Examining the chain proved fruitless. Apparently real magic made locks obsolete. The band around Stiles’ foot was a perfect circle without beginning or end, and the chain lead straight into the floor. But still Stiles laughed.

“What’s funny?” asked Martinique, making her way down a flight of stairs at the far side with a tray of food and drink.

“I was just thinking…” said Stiles.

“What?” Martinique prompted.

“Well,” said Stiles, leaning back on the couch, hands behind his head, mock relaxed. “You kidnap me, you take me somewhere, presumably miles from my home, so you can use me like some sort of external power force for your coven, right?”

Martinique didn’t reply. She put the tray down on a nearby coffee table and watched Stiles impassively.

“Well, that’s no good, is it?” Stiles prompted.

Still no response, but Stiles didn’t mind.

“And presumably, seeing as I’m awake and all, I’ve got to be, you know, consenting in some way to this?”

Martinique watched with no expression whatsoever.

“Well, too bad lady, you missed, you fail, you don’t get what you want.”

The witch didn’t seem bothered. It was disconcerting, but Stiles had ignored and styled out some of the most excruciating social faux pas a high schooler is capable of, and he was not put off by one silent woman.

“You see you’re problem?” he said, “My consent? You don’t get it!” He laughed at her, though it was far from genuine. “You see, you've got no leverage! And without leverage, I don’t do as I’m told. So I’ll just sit here, and drink your sodas and watch your TV and be totally annoying until you get bored. Because you've got nothing! No power, no leverage, nothing. Ha!”

He kicked his feet out, to show he had finished his monologue. He was in control. As long as they wanted something from him, he had control. He was the girl they wanted to take to the prom and they needed him to say yes.

“No leverage?” said Martinique, quietly.

“Nope!” said Stiles, “No… wait…”

Martinique smiled, “And who said we had no leverage?”

Stiles’ heart stopped. One of the witches dramatically entered the room, throwing open the door, as if she knew that moment was her cue to enter. She pulled a young woman with her, a familiar looking dark haired woman. She looked deathly pale and ill, her dark eyes seeming unfocused.

"How?" whispered Stiles, feeling like his lungs were shutting down and he couldn't breathe.

"That's not the question," said Martinique, as if she sensed victory. "The question is how much are you willing to give to keep your best friend's lover, who you murdered, safe?"

Stiles clenched his fists. "I don't believe any of this, this has to be some kind of trick. Allison is dead."

The Allison lookalike raised her head, seeming to hear her name. An odd look of recognition appear on her face.

"Stiles?" she rasped out.

"No, no, no," said Stiles, staring down at his hands. One, two, three, four, five. Count your fingers and your thumbs.

"I'm glad I finally have your silence and full attention," said Martinique.

"She's not real," said Stiles, the world spinning and closing in on him fast.

Martinique let out a girlish laugh. "Oh Stiles, do you really think witches play by the rules?"

The witch holding Allison pushed her down onto the sofa, next to Stiles. The Allison impostor let out a moan and closed her eyes, seemingly struggling to stay awake.

"What's wrong with her?" asked Stiles.

He didn't even dare to touch her. She looked like Allison, exactly how Allison had looked when she died. She was even wearing the dress that Lydia had picked out for her. He remembered silently going from store to store with Lydia for hours, his body still weak from possession, until Lydia had finally found the right one. The very dress Allison was now wearing. He glanced at her neck and saw the Argent family necklace. Her hair was tangled and matted, full of mud.

"She's neither here nor there," said Martinique mysteriously.

Stiles was getting sick of her crap. "What does that mean? Or are you going to continue this whole mysterious all-knowing act? Because it's getting old."

"While you were sleeping, I picked through that pretty little head of yours," said Martinique. "I saw a lot of things, a lot of interesting things. But the one thing that interested me the most was the love you have for your friends and the people who are important to you. You would do anything for them, including sacrificing yourself. It's fascinating how little you care for yourself and your own happiness."

"Everyone knows all that," said Stiles, rolling his eyes.

"Yes," said Martinique. "But does Derek realise how much you desire him? That the love story between the two of you isn't going to end too well, not when you always put everyone else before yourself. Does Scott realise you love him so much that you're going to sacrifice yourself to let him have the woman he loves back? It all comes down to this: who do you love more, Scott or Derek?"

Stiles scowled at her. "It's not going to come down to that. I'm getting out of here and Allison is coming with me."

Martinique began to laugh again. "I brought her back to life, I ripped her from where she was resting in peace, but that doesn't mean she's back for good. I haven't completed the spell, which means she could once again die. But this time she won't be resting in peace when she does, I will send her to a place where she will be eternally tormented."

"Why are you such a bitch?" Stiles asked angrily.

Martinique shrugged her shoulders. "I've always been too good for that silly little coven. For years I've had to take orders from Brooklyn and the leaders before her, but no more. Now I have you, I can be in charge."

"I feel maybe you should continue this conversation with a therapist," said Stiles. "Because it totally screams a repressed childhood and not learning how to play properly with the other children."

Martinique narrowed her eyes at him. "You will obey me and you will do it with respect. Unless you want to see your dog become my play thing in the bedroom. I am not to be mocked or messed with."

Stiles couldn't help but roll his eyes. Why did all the villains he encountered have to be such walking clichés? He was going to escape and then he was going to make the witch pay for what she'd done. Maybe he'd set Peter Hale on her or something.

"I can make Derek love you," said Martinique, obviously switching from threats to bargaining. "He will look at you with nothing but adoration and never leave you again. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

"No," said Stiles. "Because then he wouldn't be Derek. And I quite enjoy the hate boners he causes me each time I'm in his company. The whole always angry at me thing is pretty hot. So if you want my help with whatever witchy thing you're cooking up, finish the spell and let us go."

"Oh, Stiles," said Martinique. "Why on earth would I do that? Especially now I have all the power. Eventually you will submit to me willing, unless you want to be the cause of that girl's death once again."

She turned and left the room, the other witch following her like a puppy. Stiles sat on the sofa helplessly, as he heard the door lock behind her. The witch was playing mind games with him and that was fine. He was smart, not many people could win mind games against him.

"I'm sorry," said Allison softly.

Stiles had almost forgotten she was there. He examined her, amazed how little her appearance had changed. He felt as if he'd aged years since he'd last seen her.

"I'm going to get us out of this," said Stiles, sounding more certain than he felt. "Your Dad didn't happen to bury you with a bow and some arrows, did he?"

She shook her head.

"Maybe I can hit her and you can make a run for it," said Allison, her warm brown eyes staring at him intently. "I don't think I'll be much help other than that, I feel as if I'm slipping away again."

Stiles shook his head. "We're both getting out of here alive this time." He swallowed, feeling a lot of long forgotten emotions behind those words. He meant it, this time Allison was going to live.

"Okay," said Allison, smiling softly at him.

"So what was being dead like?" asked Stiles, before he could stop himself.

"Peaceful," said Allison. "What's it like being in love with Derek Hale?"

"The opposite of peaceful," said Stiles, with a grin.

"My Dad..." started Allison, biting her lip.

"He's good," said Stiles. "Well he's better than good. He's sort of well, boning Scott's Mum on a regular basis. They're keeping it a secret, but everyone can totally tell."

A wishful expression appeared on Allison's face. "A lot has changed."

Stiles reached and tentatively took her cold hand in his. "Not everything."

The door to the room was slowly being unlocked, Stiles could hear the key in the door. He wondered why the witch was back so quickly, maybe she had something new to threaten him with. The door creaked open slowly and a man appeared, carrying bottles of water. He stopped suddenly when he spotted Stiles and Allison, his mouth falling open. The three stared at each other.

"Danny?" exclaimed Stiles.

Danny stared, “What… but… what?”

Apparently Danny was surprised to see them, which made his presence even stranger.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles prompted, “And where have you been? But, no, not important as what are you doing here?”

“Uh… Martinique said she had the most powerful Spark in the U.S. in here and I… was… curious…”

Stiles’ mouth was open, but he saw no reason to close it.

“Can you explain a bit more than that?” asked Allison, thankfully as puzzled as Stiles.

“What? Uh, when Jackson left and then Ethan left, Beacon Hills just felt kind of… empty? So I just… I needed a new scene, you know? So I went to stay with my aunt in New York? Why have…”

“Martinique is your aunt?!” Stiles cried.

“No!” Danny huffed, “they’re just friends. I think. They said coven, but I don’t know about that. How is Allison here?”

“Ask your friend Martinique!” Stiles snapped.

Danny was still looking massively confused, “Why is there a chain on your ankle?”

“Because it’s the height of fashion on the West Coast,” said Stiles.

“What?”

“Because I’m being held prisoner!” Stiles cried. “I can’t … did you just…”

Danny made the same face he made when Stiles asked stupid questions, which was totally unfair when the only stupid question had come from Danny. “Martinique said the spark is very dangerous, but she’s going to do a spell to make sure it can’t hurt anyone.”

Stiles flailed, “You’ve known me since Junior High! How dangerous do you think I am?”

“Well, you did make Jared throw up that time,” said Danny. “And you did take all the nails out of coach’s office so it would fall apart. And you did…”

“They are very unfair examples!” said Stiles, “Tiny moments of humour amongst a generally… you know… well meaning…”

“You looked up my confidential arrest reports and tried to blackmail me with them…”

“That was for a good cause!” Stiles argued.

Danny gave him a look Stiles was used to, the unimpressed one. “Which was?”

“Stopping a mass-murderer!” Stiles told him, proudly.

“Wow, really?” Danny asked, looking impressed and Stiles smiled because he had finally won. “Did you stop him?”

“Uh… yeah, sort of…” said Stiles. “I mean, he’d basically finished his murder spree, but… we took him out.”

“Took him out?”

“Me and Jackson set fire to him and then Derek ripped his throat out,” Stiles mumbled.

“You killed him?” Danny looked aghast, which was totally unfair.

“He was going to kill Allison!” Stiles protested, “And probably the rest of us!”

Danny looked less aghast. Immediate protection of the innocent won Stiles points. Probably.

“Anyway, he came back to life, like, a few months later, so…”

“What?” Danny cried, “You brought a mass murderer back from the dead?”

“No! That was Lydia…”

“Oh my God!” said Danny.

The door opened once more, and Martinique stood there, a frown on her face. “Danny,” she rebuked, voice maternal, kind but rebuking, “I told you this was a dangerous place to be.”

Danny kept looking at Stiles. “Sorry, I just wanted to see,” he said.

“And now you’ve seen,” said the witch, “You have work to do. I take it you still wish to learn from me?”

“Yes,” Danny replied.

“I have a list of supplies,” said Martinique. “Can you fetch them for me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Danny, finally looking away from Stiles.

“Good,” said Martinique, taking Danny’s arm and leading him from the room. “I won’t be long,” she told Stiles. “I’m sure you will be coming to a decision soon.”

Stiles glared after her. Allison hadn’t moved from the couch. She looked ill, which, though an improvement on dead, was worrying.

“Can you… escape?” Stiles asked. “I mean, you’re not chained to the couch, so…”

Allison shook her head. “I… I don’t feel right. I don’t think I can go far. I’m not sure I can stand up on my own.”

Stiles nodded. It figured. “So… any good with magical chains?”

Allison shrugged. “I’m a bit… fuzzy. I don’t really remember much…”

Stiles stared at her. Really stared. He’d not seen her die, but he had been so aware of the death. Allison. He’d only really known her through her relationship to Scott, Scott’s crush, Scott’s girlfriend, Scott’s ex, until she’d become his victim. Not his first victim, but the victim whose face had haunted his guilt ridden nightmares.

“Are… are you really her?” he asked.

Allison nodded shakily. “I remember… I remember the … the sword, and Scott… and… and Isaac. I should have said goodbye to Isaac.”

As details went, it was a good one. Stiles had felt a whole heap of pity for Isaac when his dying girlfriend had spent her last few moments in another guy’s arms. It was not a detail picked up from a newspaper or a bit of research.

“As much as I want you to believe I am me, she did say she went through your head,” Allison said, “If I were somehow made to look like this, I’d know everything that you expect me to know.”

Stiles nodded. That was true. He was no closer to the truth. “Does that mean she knows about that fantasy I had where I was Spiderman and Derek was Mary Jane?"

Allison’s eyes twinkled. “Seriously?”

Stiles nodded, “That was actually one of the tamer ones. Sometimes Derek is Superman and I’m an intrepid reporter that keeps falling off buildings.”

Allison grinned, “You’re Lois Lane?”

“No,” said Stiles, “I’m not the girl in my own fantasies.”

Allison didn’t believe him. Stiles gave up pretending.

“I just like the idea of being caught by a muscular flying guy and then having sex with him. You can hardly judge, Ms ‘I think you mean bestiality’.”

Allison bit her lip and looked embarrassed, “I got emotionally scarred at an early age,” she confessed. "Scott is hot.”

Stiles made retching noises, which made Allison laugh. “He is hot!” she protested, “You can admit it!”

“He’s my bro!” Stiles cried, “That’s like incest!”

“So… does Derek like you back?” Allison asked, curiously. “I always assumed he was into tall angry women.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Stiles.

“And…?” Allison prompted, eyes searching Stiles’ face, hopeful.

“And… some witches seem to think he’s into me, but they also think I’m some sort of all powerful spark or something, so their judgement is questionable.”

Allison sighed. “He’s not exactly a nice guy,” she said. “Are you sure you’re into that?"

Stiles scowled, “We’ve got a connection, actually. He’s saved my life more than once. And I’ve saved his.”

“He killed my Mom,” Allison said.

“No, he didn’t,” Stiles snapped.

“He bit her,” said Allison.

“But she tried to kill Scott!” said Stiles, “You should have seen Derek when he realised Scott was in danger! I’ve had dreams of him reacting like that to me being in danger!”

Allison didn’t respond. She looked at the floor and bit her lip. Stiles realised he still didn’t know whether she was real or not.

“I gotta get out of here,” he said. “I can come back for you, but I’m useless alone. I do research and carry a baseball bat and run away a lot. I got beaten up by an octogenarian. Did you see a way out?”

Allison shook her head, sadly.

“Okay,” said Stiles, “So, chain. Let’s brain storm.”

Chains. He knew about erosion of metal, how it took huge forces and vast repetition. Then there was heat, but any heat strong enough to affect a chain would likely kill Stiles or at least do irreparable damage to his foot. Which left magic.

“When Deaton gave me the mountain ash, he told me that it was just powder until a spark ignites it. Then something about force of will. There was a lot going on, that night, but it was mostly something to do with having to believe it.”

“So… you have to believe you have mountain ash?” Allison asked.

“Or…” said Stiles, “I just … have to believe I have some sort of power…”

“And do you?” Allison asked.

Stiles shrugged, “Pretty sure I would have been more popular at school if I did. But the mountain ash worked, so I guess, maybe.”

He lifted his leg onto the couch, and stared at the chain. There was no weak-spot. No joins, or locks. But Stiles wasn’t stupid. He could run with a loop around his ankle, so he focused on the links of the chain itself. They seemed equally without flaw, so he stared hard at a link a few inches from his foot, and glared. He put all his hatred into the glare.

Though if his hate glare had genuine power, his high school would have been a pile of ashes littered with bodies.

“You might need more than a glare,” said Allison. “You didn’t make a ring of mountain ash without… mountain ash.”

"Yeah," said Stiles "Have we got any fire?"

Allison shook her head.

Stiles let out a groan. "I'm not magical. It's obvious I'm not magical, I can't even do that trick where you pretend to put your hand through a flame. I suck at card tricks, I always ask if a card is a person's card and it never is! This whole situation just sucks, it totally sucks."

"Being dead isn't a picnic either," said Allison, trying to brighten the mood.

"Do you think we're in New York?" asked Stiles. "I was drugged through most of the journey."

Allison shook her head. "No, but I heard them talking about moving us earlier."

The door opened, causing the two of them freeze, Stiles was relieved to see it was just Danny again.

"Did you forget something?" asked Stiles. "Or did the Wicked Witch of the East send you?"

Danny stepped towards them and pulled something out of his pocket. "Against my better judgement I seem to be rescuing you."

"Danny, I could kiss you right now!" exclaimed Stiles.

"Please don't," said Danny, pulling a face.

"I'm wounded, dude," said Stiles.

"I always seem to get involved with all this supernatural stuff," said Danny. "I really need to learn my lesson."

"You're from Beacon Hills, dude; just accept it."

Stiles stood up quickly as soon as the cuff around his ankle was removed. He held a hand out to Allison and pulled her up to stand, she clung to him in an attempt to stay upright.

"So what's the plan?" asked Stiles.

Danny snorted. "I set you free and you expect me to do all the work and plan everything?"

"Your GPA was almost as high as Lydia's," said Stiles. "You wouldn't have set us free without a plan."

Danny's eyes met Stiles'. "I drugged the witches, they should be asleep for the next few hours."

"You're a stone cold Slytherin, Danny my man, a stone cold Slytherin."

Danny smiled, showing off his perfect teeth. "Thanks."

"How did you drug the witches?" asked Stiles, curious about their weakness.

"I dated a Seer for a while," said Danny with a shrug. "He was pretty connected with the supernatural underworld in New York. He gave me something just in case things with the witches got out of hand. I slipped it into their herbal tea a few minutes ago, it was pretty potent."

"That's just..." Stiles grinned, "…brilliant."

"Can we get out of here?" asked Allison.

Stiles nodded, not having to be asked twice. The three of them made their way out the room and up a set of dimly lit stairs. They didn't even pause as they reached the door at the top. Stiles breathed in the cold night air with relief as they stepped outside.

He looked around and noticed they'd been inside some type of cabin that was surrounded by trees. How were they going to get away from here? Danny pulled some car keys out of his pocket, as if sensing Stiles' silent question. Stiles hadn't realised up until this point how much he missed the other man's calming presence.

"How's Beacon Hills?" asked Danny, as they climbed into one of the witches’ cars.

"Pretty messed up," replied Stiles, gently helping Allison into the back of the car. He climbed into the front seat and let out a relieved sigh as Danny started the car. Stiles felt better as they drove down the dirt track and away from the cabin.

"Greenberg said things had been a bit crazy," said Danny softly, after they'd been driving for ten minutes.

"Greenberg?" exclaimed Stiles. "You're still in contact with Greenberg?"

"He's my cousin," said Danny as way of explanation.

Stiles' mouth fell open. "But he's Greenberg and you're Danny."

Danny shrugged. "I won't be anyone if those witches catch up with me. I was only ever meant to be their personal assistant, the money they've given me has been putting me through College."

"Sorry," replied Stiles. "But they were like evil and murderous, you did realise that, right?"

"You can take the boy out of Beacon Hills, but not the Beacon Hills out of the boy I guess," said Danny, as way of explanation.

Stiles glanced back at Allison and saw she had fallen asleep. He was going to find a way to fix her, surely Argent or Deaton would know someone who could. A light shining in the back window alerted Stiles that they were no longer alone, a car was behind them. They were practically in the middle of nowhere and a car was following them. This couldn't be good.

"Danny," said Stiles.

"I can see it," replied Danny, putting his foot down on the gas.

The car behind them sped up too.

"I thought you'd drugged them!" cried Stiles.

"Obviously not as well as I thought," replied Danny.

The car behind them was close now, it was beginning to flash its lights at them. It was obvious they wanted them to pull over. Danny gripped the steering wheel, not even slowing at any bends in the road.

"We're not losing them, they're going to run us off the road," said Stiles. As he said this the other car lightly hit the back of theirs.

"Pull over," shouted Stiles.

"What?"

"Just pull over!"

Danny swerved to the side and slammed down hard on the brakes. They sat there for a moment breathing heavily, the car behind them had stopped too.

"They're after me, not you guys," said Stiles, trying to sound braver than he felt. "I'm going to get out of the car and when I give the signal of waving my hands, I want you to drive away."

"Stiles," said Danny.

"I mean it," said Stiles. "They're after me, not you two. If I do this, the two of you will have a chance to get away. I need you to promise me that you'll take Allison to Scott or her Dad. They won't let anything bad happen to her. I couldn't save her before, but I can now."

"Okay," said Danny.

"Okay," said Stiles, squeezing Danny's shoulder.

He slowly opened the car door, biting his lip nervously. Stiles stepped out of the car, trying to ignore how much his legs felt like jello. He could do this, Scott would come and save him eventually. Stiles closed the car door and walked slowly towards the other car, trying to keep his breathing calm. The other car's engine was cut and the lights went out. That was good, it would give Danny more time. He had just reached the other car, when the driver's door was swung open.

Stiles didn't have much time to react as a blur of movement leapt at him. He felt himself loose his footing and fall backwards into soft mud and a wet leaves. He felt a little dazed, but was relieved when he realised a familiar weight was on top of him. Bright blue eyes were also staring down at him, werewolf eyes. Eyes that belonged to Derek Hale.

"Derek," Stiles said softly. He was pinned to the ground by Derek's warm weight, but it was okay because he knew he was safe now.

Derek's werewolf face shifted back to human as he saw who he'd jumped on, a look of astonishment on his face. He sniffed Stiles and then shifted away from him, pushing himself onto his knees. Stiles shivered at the loss of warmth, he pushed himself up into a sitting position before he launched himself at Derek. The werewolf caught him easily, wrapping his arms around Stiles' back, as Stiles clung onto him. Neither moved away from the embrace, silently holding each other like they were the only ones in the world. It was Stiles who finally broke away slightly, moving so he could see Derek's face. His eyes met Derek's in the darkness.

"Derek..." he started, before he realised for the first time ever that talking was useless. It was time he showed Derek what he was feeling. He pushed forwards again and gently placed his lips onto Derek's. Fuck common sense, he'd almost been murdered by witches. Derek's lips were softer than Stiles had ever expected as he tried to put everything he'd been feeling recently into the kiss. His hands rested on Derek's shoulders, not quite daring to explore. The other man seemed frozen, neither moving away, nor responding. Stiles pulled away, feeling as if his whole body was on fire. He hadn't wanted to stop, but he didn't want to kiss someone who obviously wasn't into it like he was.

"Sorry," said Stiles, his heart feeling as if it was about to shatter. He was glad it was dark, he was pretty sure his entire face was etched with disappointment. Well at least he knew now. 

"Stiles," said Derek, an intense look in his eyes. Derek leaned forward purposefully, as if he was going to kiss him.

"I didn't realise the signal had changed to you putting your tongue down your Cousin Miguel's throat," said Danny's voice.

Stiles flushed a brilliant shade of red, thankfully hidden by the darkness. Derek, strangely, smiled.

“Come on,” he said, “I’ll drive us home.”

Stiles nodded, and breathed a deep sigh. “Can I borrow your phone to call my dad?”

“Sure,” said Derek, guiding Stiles to the passenger side. “But you need a rest first.”

Stiles didn’t agree, but he got in the car, and began looking for Derek’s phone.

“What happened to the Camaro?” he asked, casually before Derek could shut him in.

“Oh,” said Derek, thoughtfully, “I left it in New York.”

Stiles pulled a face, “Why?” he asked.

“Because I was running away from a crazy witch,” said Derek, “obviously.”

“And you didn’t drive?”

“I flew.”

“Oh,” Stiles accepted, “I guess that makes sense.”

Derek didn’t reply. He just looked over at Danny, who, apparently feeling left out, had begun to amble back to his car.

“Hey, can I borrow your phone?” Stiles asked again.

“Later,” said Derek. “I’ve just got to check Danny knows where to drive, okay?”

“Okay,” said Stiles, a little sulkily. Derek put a hand on his face, and looked at him. Stiles didn’t smile because he was sulking, but he totally wouldn’t have turned down a kiss.

Sadly, kisses didn’t seem to be part of Derek’s plan. The werewolf let his hand drop, then shut the door, leaving Stiles alone in the car. He walked over to Danny, who was just sat in his own car, and Stiles looked for the phone again. It was only then that it struck him as strange that Derek hadn’t just handed over his phone. He hadn’t known Derek’s family, but everything he did know about them suggested they were close. Surely the first thing Derek would have done after a kidnap rescue would have been to call home, when he still had one.

He watched Derek lean into Danny’s car door, presumably giving directions back to Beacon Hills, in fact took some long moments to enjoy the sight of Derek’s ass. It was divine. Like, the most beautiful shape Stiles had ever seen. Like two round things he wanted to squeeze. And maybe bite. He wondered if Derek would let him. And if he’d carry him bridal style in the privacy of their own manor house.

So Stiles might have been getting ahead of himself, it hardly mattered. Because this wasn’t real.

“Shit!” he shouted. “You’re not Derek!”

He jumped out of the car, furious with himself. He’d just kissed and imagined a future with some witch. “You’re not Derek!” he shouted again, apoplectic. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”

Not-Derek straightened up, and turned to Stiles slowly.

“What gave me away?” he asked.

Stiles glared. “Derek would have called my dad straight away,” he said. “You’re a witch.”

The witch nodded, the action almost a bow, an acknowledgement that Stiles had recognised the deception.

“Well done, Stiles,” said the witch. “I’m impressed.”

“But… why?” Stiles cried, “What was the point of pretending to be Derek?”

“Oh I didn’t pretend to be Derek,” said the witch.

The ground around them shook. Stiles stumbled, grabbed onto the car to stay upright. All around him, monsters were crawling, waking up from the Earth itself. They surrounded the clearing and Derek smiled. Stiles backed into the car in fear, as they grew and tumbled over each other.

But they didn’t approach him. Instead the surrounded Derek, who merely smiled a cold smile.

“Wake up,” he said. “You might not want to watch this bit.”

“What?” Stiles cried.

The monsters tore Derek apart.

Stiles screamed, and suddenly he was no longer on a road. They were in the basement, and Stiles’ ankle was still attached to a seamless chain and Allison was looking as frail as the wind next to him. Before them stood the impressive form of Martinique, a smile on her face.

Stiles blinked, and gasped in the shock. The images of Derek being torn apart, of his gruesome and violent death were glued in his head. They wouldn’t leave. “Why?” he gasped out.

Martinique leaned forward, and pressed a cold hand against his face. “That was a small taste of the magic I’m capable of,” she said, “minds are my speciality.”

Stiles shook her off, pushed her hands away from him. “Why?!” he cried again.

“I’m showing you your choices,” said the witch. “You say yes, your friend gets his love, Derek gets to be free, and you get to be here, enjoying beautiful stories in your mind. Everyone’s lives get to be normal. You keep saying no, well, I can make sure you never know the difference between fantasy and reality again.”

She patted Stiles on the head, heedless of his glare.

“That was a nice one. Next time, you’ll be so scared, you’ll tear yourself apart.”

With a self-satisfied smile that Stiles wanted to punch off, Martinique moved away, back to the door. She gave him one last smirk before she left, and one last set of words to break him.

“It’s a pity he’ll never know how you really feel about him.”

And she was gone.

***

The next attempted rescue came from Peter. He broke through the door by tearing the lock out, and then broke the chain with brute strength, and smirked at Stiles with very realistic arrogance.

It was pretty logical. He had been closest at the time of Stiles’ abduction. He explained how he’d followed the car, then had to find a safe way to break in, hence the slightly late arrival. Stiles only stared at him.

“So, are you coming?” Peter asked, with arrogant impatience.

Stiles hesitated. He looked Peter up and down, from his stylish boots to his V-neck. There was no sign he wasn’t real, at least not one that Stiles could make out.

“But, if I made you up, I wouldn’t be able to see through it, would I?” Stiles asked.

Peter put his head to one side. “What are you talking about Stiles?”

Stiles shrugged, so much doubt in his head. “You haven’t asked about Allison,” he said, “that’s a flaw.”

Peter got closer, put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and pulled him up. “I figured we can discuss the details when we’ve got away from the witches. Do I need to carry you?”

“She’s back from the dead and you call it a detail?”

Peter shrugged, “I’ll make an undead club website when we get back to Beacon Hills. Are you coming?”

Stiles looked at the floor. Peter coming to rescue him. It was both possible and impossible. They had a weird link that predated Malia. Peter had been the first one to refer to him as the ‘smart one’, which Stiles found flattering despite the subsequent kidnapping. And there had been other strange moments. But mostly, Peter had tried to kill him a few times, and Scott a few times and that probably outweighed all the odd moments put together.

So, this was so unlikely, it had to be another trick. Peter watched him with a calculating look only Peter was capable of. But it still wasn’t him.

“Oh, Stiles,” he intoned, slowly, “You’re so untrusting.”

“Get away from me,” Stiles hissed, scrambling away from Peter, but the werewolf followed him.

“Oh, Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” Peter smiled, “I protected you from the witch. Is it so hard to believe I’d try to bring you home?”

“No,” said Stiles.

“I fought for you, I protected you, I would kill for you,” Peter told him. “I’m pack.”

“Uh, not really,” said Stiles, “You never really…”

“I could have made us the most powerful pack on Earth, Stiles,” said Peter. “All you needed to do was accept it…”

“You were killing people!” Stiles interrupted.

“But I didn’t kill you,” Peter answered. “I saw you Stiles.”

And Stiles had nowhere left to back away. He had reached the wall, the edge of his prison, and Peter was closing in on him.

“I saw you, Stiles!” Peter snapped. “Before Lydia, or Malia or Derek, I saw you.”

He trapped Stiles, arms a cage around his head, eyes burning into his, “That night I searched for my first beta there was one scent, one person, one beta I wanted. I lost him to the cops, I couldn’t follow. I was desperate so I took Scott instead, but Stiles, it could have been you.”

His face was so close, his lips, his teeth, his eyes, all terrifying and appealing and wrong. Stiles stared in awe.

“It should have been you.”

He woke up before Peter’s lips could force themselves onto his. Again on the sofa, again with a chain on his leg.

“Wow,” said Martinique. “That one was hot. I need to find a way to market these, I’d make a fortune.”

“You’re fucked up!” Stiles grumbled. “He’s my ex’s dad.”

Martinique grinned, “Your head, sweetheart. I just take the ideas and roll with them.”

Stiles gave her the finger, and turned away from her.

***

Within a few hours, Derek had died no less than five times in Stiles' mind; five horrific times. His death count was closely followed by Scott and his Dad at four. Lydia, Scott's Mum and Malia had died three times, whilst Peter and Chris Argent were at two each. Stiles was starting to feel his grasp on reality slipping away. Each time he fell into a dream like trance it felt real, like he was finally being rescued. Each time it ended with a grisly death or something worse and Martinique's gloating face. 

"Stiles," said Allison's voice. "Stiles!"

He didn't open his eyes, not knowing if he could trust what he was about to see. 

"No," he moaned. 

"Stiles," said Allison, her voice desperate. "Stay with me." 

Stiles finally opened his eyes and saw Allison had curled into him. She looked weak, but there was fiery determination in her eyes. 

"How do I know you're real?" asked Stiles. 

Allison bit her lip. "I don't know, I don't even know if I'm real myself. But I need to get you out of here."

"That's how it always starts Allison," said Stiles. "Someone comes to rescue us or we escape. Then I find out that it was never real in the first place." 

"That's how the witch wants you to feel," exclaimed Allison. "The Stiles I know doesn't give up." 

Stiles stared miserably down at the chain on his ankle. "What do you suggest?" 

Allison pushed herself up into a standing position. She stumbled around the basement, holding onto the wall to keep herself upright. Finally she stopped at a small window that was too small for either of them to fit through. 

"It's raining," she said softly. 

"Yeah," said Stiles. 

He once again stared down at the chain around his ankle, trying his hardest to melt it with his non-existent mind powers. That witch was really barking up the wrong tree. The only power he had was his brain and she was using that against him. He looked at his hand and slowly began to count his fingers. One, two, three, four...

"Rain!" exclaimed Stiles suddenly. 

"Rain?" asked Allison. 

"Open the window," said Stiles. "I know it sounds insane, but please just do it." 

Allison frowned, but didn't question his judgement. She stood on her tip-toes and pushed the window, it wasn't locked and opened with a bit of persuasion. A cold wind swept through the room and Allison slid down to the floor, seeming unable to keep herself upright. Stiles stared at the open window waiting for something to happen, anything, but nothing did. 

"They spend all that time chasing me," said Stiles. "And I pretty much try to hand myself over and they can't even be polite enough to turn up. I hate witches!" 

"Stiles," said Allison. 

"No, I mean what use are they?" asked Stiles. "I mean, seriously? At least werewolves keep down the deer population, but what do witches do? They are so much better in the pages of Harry Potter. I would give anything right now for Dumbledore to make an appearance."

"Stiles," repeated Allison. 

"I can totally see why history has such a downer on them," continued Stiles, "they suck, they totally suck." 

"Stiles," said Allison. "Look!" 

Stiles followed Allison's gaze and then let out a cry of alarm, flailing wildly. Standing by his knee was one of the rain monsters. It didn't look very intimidating up close, kind of like an oversized beaver standing on its hind legs with dragon wings. 

"Master wants," said the creature, its bright brown eyes staring at Stiles. "Master wants ‘Tiles." 

"Master can have," said Stiles, nodding reassuringly at it. "If you do something about this chain."

The rain monster let out a huff, it raised a furry arm and razor sharp claws shot out of the end. The creature used the claw to slice through the chains as if they were paper. 

Stiles stared at it for a moment, restraining himself from hugging the thing. "Do you think my Dad will let me keep one?" 

"’Tiles comes with me," said the creature. 

"To Beacon Hills?" asked Stiles. 

"Beacon Hills," it repeated. 

Stiles knew at least with the other witch he would stand a chance of keeping his sanity. Maybe if he promised to stay away from Derek she'd let him live and maybe help Allison. That was the best case scenario. Stiles didn't even want to think about the worst case scenario. 

"Tiles comes now." 

"And Allison," said Stiles. 

The window in the room was beginning to pick up, heavy rain was falling from the ceiling. 

"And the girl." 

Stiles let out a gasp as the rain and wind combined together, taking the shape of a tornado. It travelled round the room, upturning furniture as it went. He held out his arms and let it take him. Stiles was pretty sure he heard a scream of rage as everything blurred together and the basement disappeared. He closed his eyes and hoped for the best. 

***

When Stiles opened his eyes again he was stood in the middle of Beacon Hills, staring at Deaton's surgery. He shivered, realising he was soaking wet and it was the middle of the night. The rain monster had disappeared and Allison was clinging onto his arm. He briefly wandered if this was some kind of trick. 

"Well, I haven't woken up yet," said Stiles. "That has to be a good sign." 

Allison opened her mouth, but no words came out. She was pale and began to sway from side to side. Stiles managed to catch her just as she passed out, keeping her upright with his arms. 

The door to the Vet's surgery flew open, Parrish and Peter Hale rushed out. Parrish was in full hell hound mode and his eyes were glowing. Even Peter looked ready for a fight and was wolfed out. They stared at Stiles, as if waiting for him to attack. 

"What the hell is going on?" asked Stiles. 

"Shouldn't we be asking you that question?" asked Peter, a calculated expression on his face. "We do not have time for any more of your tricks, witch." 

Stiles began to laugh, somewhat hysterically. "You think I'm the witch?" 

"You have a long dead girl in your arms," said Peter. "It's not too much of a stretch." 

Stiles looked at Parrish, hoping for some reassurance, but he was met with a stoic expression. 

"Oh, come on," he said, "it’s me, Stiles." 

"That's what an impostor would say," replied Peter. 

"I need to see Deaton," said Stiles. "If I don't, Allison may die again. So if you're going to attack me, go for it. I'm going in there and you are going to let me." 

He picked Allison up, holding her in his arms, she weighed hardly anything. He stepped resolutely forwards, towards Peter and Parrish, hoping they'd see sense and move. He didn't have to wait too long; the two were pushed unceremoniously aside by Chris Argent. 

"Get out of the way," Chris demanded. "That's my daughter." 

Chris threw his gun to the ground and took Allison from Stiles. Stiles let him without much of an argument, he trusted that Chris would do everything in his power to help her. Allison's eyes fluttered open as she was transferred into her father's arms. 

"Daddy?" she whispered.

"It's okay, baby," said Chris softly. "I've got you." 

Stiles bit his lip, shoving away the urge to cry, he needed to see his own Dad. Stepping forwards, he found his path was once again blocked by Peter and Parrish. 

"Screw this," said Stiles, beginning to turn away from them. "I'm going home. But just you remember, when I've had some food and sleep, I'm going to Google every dog joke I can find and you both are going to hear every single one of them. And just so you know Parrish, Gwen on dispatch owes me a favour, I hope you like petty theft and cats stuck up trees, because that'll be all you're getting. And you are never getting pancakes again, Peter!" 

"Stiles?" 

Stiles felt his heart begin to beat faster at the sound of Derek's voice. Of course it was Derek, standing in the door of the Vets bathed in light, his Dad and Scott stood behind him. It seemed all his friends had been having a party at the Vets without him. 

"He might not be Stiles," said Peter, as way of warning. 

Stiles was pretty sure Peter knew it was him and was now was just being a douche for the fun of it. 

"I know my son," said his Dad. "Get out of my way, before I use my gun to make you." 

He marched forwards and pulled Stiles into an embrace. Stiles felt hot tears fill his eyes, as he relaxed into his Dad's safe embrace. The two held each other tightly and Stiles let out a choked sob. 

"It's okay, kid, I've got you," said his Dad. 

"The witch," began Stiles, his voice muffled by his Dad's shoulder. 

"I know." 

When they finally pulled apart, Stiles saw his Dad's eyes also looked a little moist. Scott and Derek both seemed to reach towards him at the same time, but Stiles flinched away from the both of them. What if they weren't real? What if this was all some big illusion again? He looked down at his hand and began to count: One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. 

"Stiles?" 

One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. 

"None of you are real," whispered Stiles, stepping away from them all. 

"Looks like the witch has been having a little too much fun with him," stated Peter. "I think he's broken." 

"Stiles," said Scott. "It's okay." 

"No," said Stiles, trying to put distance between himself and everyone else. He was at the beginning of a panic attack, he could feel his lungs constricting. "No." 

He grasped Derek’s hand. He counted the fingers.

One, two, three, four, five… six.

He wept like a baby. He’d believed. Yet again, he’d let himself believe that this time it was real. This time he’d got them all, his dad, Derek, Scott, even Peter and Parrish and Chris Argent for some reason. He could have been in his dad’s arms. He’d believed he was. He’d wanted to cling onto him like a child.

“Aw,” cooed Martinique. “Poor little baby.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles mumbled, but he was losing his venom.

The witch leaned forward and dragged a nail through his hair, almost comforting, soothing, like a mother to a child, “It can all be over, Stiles, all of it.”

Stiles closed his eyes, tried to block out the world, but it was too much.

“Stiles,” the witch purred, a smooth, scintillating voice. “You can make it all stop.”

He would never have believed he could be so easily be broken. He hadn’t even been there a whole day. He had experienced no real pain. He really was weak. All he had, all he believed himself to be, were his thoughts. His brain, working a mile a minute, making sense of the world, making humour and seeing through the shit. This witch had taken everything that mattered and twisted it, like Stiles were no more than a picture on a piece of paper that the witch had torn up. He was still there, in pieces, but nothing like before. He’d never be put back together. But at least the tearing could stop.

“How?” he breathed.

The witch’s smile was brilliant, like a light made into a weapon. “It’s a ceremony, Stiles. Just a bit of chanting, a bit of singing, then you give me something. You hand it over and you won’t even know it’s gone. You won’t feel anything, I promise.”

Taking a deep breath, Stiles accepted the words. “Will I die?”

“Oh, no, darling,” she murmured, her hands a warm weight on his face now, soft and reassuring. “I’ll need you around. Forever.”

That made him shiver. It wasn’t right, wasn’t what he wanted to hear, “But… but…”

“But no more misery,” she said. “No more watching them die. Shall I show you what I can give you instead?”

With no more power to talk, Stiles could only give a tiny nod of his head.

“Here,” the witch whispered, “here.”

She put her hand over Stiles’ eyes. The room darkened, down to the depths of blackness.

He awoke with Derek behind him. Spooning him. He almost laughed. He used to lie like this with Malia. It had been one of the few parts of their semi-violent interactions that he really, truly enjoyed. But this, with a solid chest and big strong arms around him, the picture was more complete than he’d ever dreamed.

He moaned in satisfaction, even knowing it wasn’t real. Derek wasn’t really here. He was home in Beacon Hills and, if he had any sense, giving up on finding Stiles. Or maybe he was already moving on. Maybe, without the need to be guilty, Derek would find he didn’t care. Maybe he was getting on with his life.

“What will you do now?” he asked the Derek of his dreams.

While he formed his answer, dream Derek ran a welcome hand up and down Stiles’ abdomen, a possessive and loving move. “I’ll take care of you,” he said. “I’ll hold you, and make love to you…”

“No, not in my dream,” Stiles interrupted, “In real life.”

The hands stopped their caressing. “You’ve been kidnapped by witches to be used for some ritual you don’t yet know about, and you worry about me?”

Stiles looked back at him with a frown. “You’re right. You’ll just find another sociopath to have hot sex with.”

Behind him, dream-Derek huffed. “Is that what you think of me?”

“Uh, that’s what I know about you,” Stiles snapped. “You have hot sex with sociopaths. It’s a pattern.”

Derek kissed Stiles’ shoulder, “Well at least you think it’s hot.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Dude, everything you do is hot. It’s like you’re a walking, occasionally talking, real-life, wet dream. Seriously, you should be banned from public places for being too distracting. One day, you’re gonna cause a serious traffic accident.”

“You never told me,” Derek pointed out.

“Oh come on!” Stiles turned in his arms and raised his eyebrows at Derek. “You know how hot you are. You go around in a tank top and tight jeans. That is not the wardrobe of someone with low self-esteem.”

Derek didn’t smile, exactly, but Stiles knew he was amused. Because this was a perfect dream world where Stiles was funny and not annoying.

Derek ran a gentle hand through Stiles’ hair. “I don’t deserve you,” he told him. 

“Yes, you do!” Stiles argued. “You deserve way better! You’ll find better! You’ll find some hot girl and you’ll have beautiful babies, and they’ll grow up to break the hearts of their very own teenage geeky hangers-on.”

Derek pulled Stiles closer, so their bodies were flush against each other. “You’ve got no idea how amazing you are, do you?”

Stiles hummed, pleased, “I like my dream you.”

Lips began to nibble at his chin, burning hot yet leaving goose bumps in their wake. It all felt so real, the arms, the breath, the sounds, the smells. Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek and pulled him closer with all his strength. Derek could have resisted with ease, but he didn’t. He allowed himself to be manoeuvred until he was on top, until Stiles was gazing up at his face like he was staring at the stars, thinking how beautiful it was.

He was left breathless for a moment. All that flawless fair skin, with the dark stubble so masculine and hot. Even those eyebrows. They were so dark and heavy, yet over those eyes that pierced Stiles’ very soul, they worked. Stiles rubbed a hand through dream Derek’s hair, as Derek smiled like he was the sun bringing life itself.

And Stiles’ heart shattered into a million pieces.

“Martinique!” he called, “Martinique, please!”

Dream Derek frowned, his face puzzled but no less beautiful. “It’s okay, Stiles. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve got you.”

Stiles shook his head, feeling salt tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. “No, no you haven't got me! Martinique!”

“It’s okay!” Derek pleaded, “I can look after you…”

“Martinique!” Stiles cried, desperate now.

“What?” Martinique asked. She was stood next to the bed, where a normal person would be awkward and embarrassed. She wasn’t. She was looking hungry.

“Please, make it stop!” Stiles begged. “I’m not… I’m …”

“This is what you want!” the witch snapped, “I’ve seen it in your head! You want him!”

Stiles nodded, “Yes! I know!” His hands were pressed against dream Derek’s chest now, holding him back. Thankfully, dream Derek was not pushing.

“Then what is your problem?” Martinique demanded, voice edged with harsh spite.

“It’s not real!” Stiles explained, still desperate.

Martinique rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s not real. But this is the closest you’re getting.”

Stiles sniffed, took a shuddering breath, pushed more onto Derek’s shoulders. It was enough to bring out a tiny dash of mercy in Martinique.

“It’s this or nothing, Stiles,” she said, “I’m trying to do a nice thing.”

“Then… then nothing,” Stiles requested quietly.

Martinique’s jaw stiffened. “Nothing?”

Stiles looked dream Derek up and down. He was so realistic. The muscles, the eyes, he face, the strength, the power, the sheer way he made Stiles feel. But that was without value. If he couldn’t have the real Derek, this pretence was just a torment. A tease meant to madden.

“Nothing,” Stiles confirmed.

Martinique snorted in disgust. She clearly couldn’t understand the decision. She’d never truly loved anyone. She only saw people for the value they brought to her. Stiles’ reaction clearly disappointed her to the point of anger. “Then nothing you shall have,” she nearly growled.

Stiles blinked. There was no more time that passed, but he was suddenly in a cell. A black room with no door or window. Eight feet wide and eight feet long, with no furniture. Martinique truly had given him nothing.

He nodded. It was better than the lie he desperately wanted.

He waited for the witches to use him as they wished. When Stiles realised he was alone and the witches were not coming back, he slid down to the floor and rested his head on his knees. Trying to ignore how isolated and lonely he felt. 

***

Minutes or maybe even hours later the door to the room opened and one of Martinique's followers stepped inside. The darkness melted away and Stiles could see he was once again in the basement sitting on the sofa. Allison was still with him, but she was not moving and deathly pale. 

The witch flicked her wrist and the chain around Stiles' ankle opened and dropped to the floor. 

"It's time," said the witch as explanation. 

"Time for what?" asked Stiles, not trusting the situation was real. 

"The ceremony," she grabbed a hold of Stiles and yanked him towards the stairs. 

Stiles tried to pull away, but her grip was vice-like. He tried to drop to the floor, but she wouldn't let him. 

"Come on!" said the witch through gritted teeth. "This will be so much easier if you just submitted to us." 

"I've never submitted to anyone in my life," said Stiles. "Look, just go back upstairs and tell your master that this whole ceremony thing is a waste of time." 

The witch began to laugh. "Do you really think you have any say in this? Do you really want to end up dead?" 

"Of course," said Stiles sarcastically. "I'd hate for a little thing like me dying to get in the way of those plans of yours." 

"Come on, or I'll kill that little friend of yours," said the witch. "Although she does not look as if she has long left in this world. Such a pity, she's very beautiful." 

Stiles took one last look at Allison, before he allowed himself to be dragged upstairs. It had been nice spending time with her again, even if she wasn't real. His brain was buzzing, trying to think of a plan. He'd have more of a chance to run for it once they were outside. Stiles breathed in the cold night air as they stepped out the cabin, seeing a large fire close by with a number of shiny rocks around it in a perfect circle. Martinique was stood next to it, wearing dark purple robes and talking quietly to another witch. 

"If you run, the next illusion you have will be the worst," said Martinique, as if reading his mind. 

"I've seen scarier Disney films than your previous ones," he said, with defiance he didn’t really feel. There was so many awful things she could still choose to torture him with. 

"Tie him to the pole and get the girl," ordered Martinique. 

The other witch headed back to the cabin, whilst the one who had fetched him tied him to a metal post sticking out the ground. Stiles glared at Martinique the entire time, hoping she could see the hatred he felt for her on his face. 

"No witty words?" asked Martinique, mockery in her voice. 

"You better hope you can run fast," said Stiles, pretending he wasn’t shaking with exhaustion and fear, "Because Scott will find you and if he doesn't kill you, my Dad will." 

Martinique let out a cackle. "Silly boy. A feral dog and a silly human will never be able to hurt me. Not after I've squeezed every last drop of magic from you." 

"I hope you choke on it," said Stiles. 

The other witch had returned and placed Allison at Stiles' feet. Martinique bent down in front of her and pulled a knife out from her robes. She grabbed Allison by her hair and held the knife to her pale neck. Martinique looked at Stiles with a calculated look on her face. 

"You already chose this, Stiles," said Martinique. "You agreed. Do I need to remind you?”

Stiles shook his head at her, but Martinique pressed the point of the knife into Allison's neck anyway, as though she was desperate to show her own strength yet again. A drop of blood dripped down Allison’s chalky pale skin. This was bad, this was really bad. It was if he was back in time. 

Martinique grinned, sadistically, "Last chance." 

The knife was being dug in harder, ready to cut and kill. Allison would be dead again soon and it would all be Stiles' fault. 

"I already told you!" exclaimed Stiles. "You can have it, whatever you want, you can have. Just please, don't hurt her. Please."

Martinique looked victorious. "So you consent, you will give me your power?"

"Yes," croaked Stiles. "Just give me your word you'll save her." 

Martinique stood up, her eyes practically glowing with joy. "Of course. I'll make it quick and painless, I promise."

The three witches stepped out of the circle and stood an equal distant apart from one another. They began to chant in a different language, Stiles wasn't sure if it was Latin or something else. He watched fascinated, even though he was most likely about to die. If he survived this, he was totally going on a research binge and writing a book on how to kill witches. 

Something warm was growing in Stiles stomach, it felt as if he'd swallowed several hot cups of coffee in a row. It was expanding and spreading through his body, trickling down to his toes and up to the very tips of his hair. He could feel power inside of him, power that he'd never even realised was there. It was glowing, he was glowing. 

"Bond of the sisters," said Martinique stepping into the circle. "The body of a dead ally slayed by trickery, light of the waxing moon and fire made of the roots of witches trees. I pray to thee now, give all his power to me." 

Martinique held out her hands and the warmth in Stiles’ body seemed to leak out of him and towards her. 

"Give it to me!" exclaimed Martinique, laughing maniacally. "Give it all to me." 

Stiles was beginning to feel light headed and woozy. Every bit of energy and warmth was fast leaving his body, like it was being pulled out by a magnet. If this was what dying was like, then it wasn't so bad. His eyes fluttered closed as he felt as if everything was being tugged from him. He grasped around his head for a memory, any memory to pull him away from what was happening. His brain oddly settled on the first time he met Derek out in the woods, the day all their lives had changed forever. Tired, he was so tired. 

A roar pulled Stiles out of his dreamlike state. It wasn't any roar, it was the roar of his alpha. Immediately he felt all the power rush back into his body. Stiles opened his eyes and a blinding pain shot through his head. He was on fire, every part of him was burning. Stiles let out a scream and the ropes around him sprang apart.

"No," screamed Martinique. "It's not possible."

She was cut off by a very angry alpha werewolf launching himself at her. The two hit the ground and began to grapple, both making angry and feral noises. Peter Hale was already with one of the other witches, slamming his clawed hand into her stomach like her skin was paper. Lydia seemed to be quite successfully taking care of the other witch with Parrish. Stiles didn't care about that, all he cared about was Allison who was lying on the ground, not moving. He threw himself to his knees, desperately trying to feel for a pulse. 

"Stiles!" 

His Dad and Derek were rushing towards him. 

"Don't touch her!" demanded Stiles, power flooded out of him like a wave and knocked everyone backwards. He wasn't himself, nothing was making sense any more. Were they real? Was he real? Everything hurt. His whole body was burning like it was on fire. 

Scott recovered first and tried to walk towards him, but Stiles caused him to halt and freeze like a statue with the wave of his hand. 

"Stiles," said his Dad. "It's okay, kid." 

"You shouldn't be here," said Stiles. 

"You're my son," said his Dad. "There's no place where I should be more." 

"No," said Stiles. "You can't be near me, I can't hurt you. I need you to be safe."

"Stiles..."

He closed his eyes and imagined his Dad back at home safe and when he opened them again, he was gone. 

Chris Argent, who was hiding in the tree line, pointed his gun at Stiles and he made it dissolve into dust within seconds. Peter Hale was now looking at Stiles as if he was a fascinating puzzle. Probably thinking about what he'd do if he had his powers. Probably some ill-fated revenge plan. 

"I need to help her," said Stiles, looking down at Allison. 

Lydia stepped towards him. 

"Her?" she said gently. "There's nobody there Stiles." 

Another wave of power exploded from Stiles, knocking everyone but Scott backwards again. He held Allison's body in his arms, knowing once again it was too late. The witches must have done something so nobody else could see Allison. They'd needed her as part of the spell and it seemed they had discarded her existence now they were done with her. 

"You all need to get away from me," said Stiles, his throat feeling raw. He understood what was happening now, he was a volcano that was about to erupt. Nobody could survive with this much power inside of them. "I'm dangerous. Grab Scott and go."

"No."

Stiles looked up and saw the answer had surprisingly come from Derek. 

"Derek," said Stiles. 

"I'm not leaving you," said Derek. "We don't leave each other."

He was on his feet, slowly walking towards Stiles and signalling for the others to stay back. 

"I left you in Mexico," said Stiles, feeling tears swell up in his eyes. "And you left us after that."

Another burst of power shot out of Stiles' body like an arrow, it hit Derek and left cuts on his arms and face. It didn't stop Derek continuing to advance forwards. 

"That was a mistake," said Derek quietly. 

Stiles finally let go of Allison. "I'm on fire, this must be how it feels when a star finally burns out. So much energy and power. I didn't know I had a nuclear bomb inside of me. Just lying dormant and waiting to wake up. If I'd known I would have done something to contain it. But I can't now and you all need to get out of here." 

"I'm not leaving you," said Derek again. 

Stiles tried to push him back with his mind, but Derek dropped to his knees and dug his claws into the mud. The burning inside of Stiles was getting hotter, he was about to explode and there would be nothing left when he did. His friends needed to go. They would burn with him if they weren't careful. 

"You'll die," said Stiles, tears running down his face. 

"We'll die together," said Derek, his face resolute. 

"You're crazy, dude," choked Stiles. "Absolutely crazy. I'm not worth dying for." 

Derek was close to him now, the energy was pouring off Stiles and cutting into Derek's skin. The cuts were healing as fast as they were appearing. 

"Yes you are," said Derek softly. "We're a team, where one of us goes the other follows. I've known that since the beginning, since we started saving each other. The pool, the hospital, the preserve, the school, the station, elevators, Mexico. We don't ever leave each other behind and I'm not about to start now."

Stiles opened his mouth but found it covered by Derek's. Derek wrapped his strong and solid arms around him and clung on, kissing him like it was the last thing he would ever do. The power was burning Derek, creating wounds and cuts, Stiles could sense it, but still Derek wouldn't let go. Stiles began to kiss him back, hoping the others would have the sense to run from the danger he was about to create. He was a firework that was about to go off, showering everything in the vicinity. Derek was a fool and Stiles' heart ached for him. At least they'd have this moment and he wouldn't be alone, even if it was the last moment either of them would ever have. 

For each moment their lips moved against each other, Stiles’ burning power, though undiminished, grew less overwhelming. It was like the cloud, impressive as it was, was moving to one side, allowing him vision through the whiteout. 

Derek was before him, all glorious beauty and passion and Stiles could have laughed at himself for believing the imitations Martinique has created. They were nothing in comparison, they were Barbie dolls; plastic and vacuous beside the real flesh and splendour of Derek Hale. It would be wrong to say Derek’s presence brought clarity to Stiles; Derek generally brought confusion, frustration and arousal. But it did help him to see through the fog, to see his route through.

And if Derek wanted to kiss him, if it was true, Derek wanted Stiles, maybe even loved him, then Stiles could rethink himself. If Derek loved him, Stiles had a path. A route to happiness. He could be anything he wanted. He was burning with energy. Spark was the wrong word. Stiles was a flame, burning hot and white and ready to explode. He needed to get that energy gone.

Derek was so close, his body pressed up against Stiles’. Too close. He would burn with Stiles if he were not careful.

Stiles grabbed Derek’s face, a hand on either cheek and pushed the werewolf away, just enough to look into his eyes. 

“Derek,” he said, his voice ringing and smothered all at once. “Stand behind me. But keep hold of me. Can you do that?”

The werewolf nodded, though he clearly had no idea what Stiles was talking about. Stiles guided him, felt the arms around him, a standing version of that spooning position he craved to try. He had the strength of the most incredible man he’d ever met at his back, and he needed to control his own power before it blew the world apart.

He had one place to focus. Instinctively he knew that there was one thing near him that needed the sort of energy he was burning with. The pale, prone woman on the floor, silent and unmoving, as though she were dead once more. Maybe she was, but Stiles could fix that. It wasn’t a matter of skill. It was merely a transfer of life energy, from Stiles who had too much, so much he was being torn apart, into Allison who had none.

He poured the magic into her, like his hands were the spout of a teapot. It was so easy, like watering a flower and watching it grow. The people around him were staring, Derek’s frightened breaths were warm against his ear, as everyone watched and waited. As the magic poured into her being, Allison’s skin grew steadily rosier, healthier and more alive. Stiles knew, just felt certain, that she was getting stronger. Allison would be back.

In his delight, he laughed aloud. He was bringing life, bringing back someone so loved by people he cared for deeply. Even if he didn’t survive, he could give them this gift. It was so beautiful and full of hope.

“No!”

A loud crack split the air and suddenly Scott was on the ground. Stiles was distracted from his task. A bedraggled Martinique clambered towards him. She had claw marks on her skin, but she was strong enough. Another crack sent Argent, Peter and Lydia tumbling down, as the witch scrambled to Stiles.

“Give it to me! It’s mine! I found it! Give it to me!”

Her voice was wrecked, a parody of a witch, screechy and vicious. Her face was wild, mad with desire. She was gaining on Stiles, arms outstretched. “Give it to me!” she repeated, again and again. “Give it to me or I kill them all!”

So Stiles did. He sent every joule of energy, every spark, every flicker that was burning him from inside straight into her. Her eyes lit up, bright as a child on Christmas morning, as she felt the waves of power surge through her body. Wave after wave after wave. Her eyes grew brighter until they resembled flames, burning in her face. Her jaw went slack.

“No… No…. It can’t…”

She began to shake, her breathing becoming shaky gasps. Once more she reached out desperate hands to Stiles. 

“Stop!” she gasped, “Please, stop it!”

But the power was a waterfall. Stiles couldn’t stop it any more than he could have stopped Niagara Falls. It rushed through him and out of him, as it escaped its eighteen-year-long captivity. And before him the witch fried from inside.

“Stiles,” Derek pleaded. “Stiles stop!”

“Can’t,” Stiles managed to explain.

“Stiles!” Scott shouted, “You’re killing her!”

Stiles tried, he tried so hard. The witch convulsed. It reminded Stiles of Erica’s fits, only more violent and with more blood.

“Stiles,” Allison murmured from the floor, but still Stiles was powerless.

Everyone shrank back, except Derek who held on tight, as though he could squeeze the energy another way, and Peter, who jumped to his feet.

The older werewolf made a sound of disgust. “Fine,” he said, loudly, “You’re all a bunch of cowards.”

He brought up a fist. It flew at Stiles’ head. And then the world went black.

***

Stiles wondered if Peter Hale had killed him.

It would have been a strange choice. There was no way Peter Hale could have fought off every person still there, so killing Stiles would have been pretty suicidal. Or maybe not. Scott’s belief in forgiveness and non-violence had grown pretty strong recently. Maybe so far as his best friend’s murderer. Maybe he’d just lock Peter back in Eichen House.

Though, if Stiles were still capable of thinking such thoughts, he probably wasn’t dead.

He blinked his eyes open. In front of him was nothing but grey. He blinked again. If he were dead, it was probably grey that he would see. It was a dead colour, a fuzzy dull… roof of a car.

“What is happening?” he asked. What came out was “Nuh nuh?”

A head loomed into his line of sight. It was Derek, eyes wide and worried.

“Stiles!” he cried.

Stiles blinked a few more times. “Wah gon?” he managed.

“Stiles, are you OK?” Derek asked. Another voice was asking something similar from further away, and another was muttering. Derek looked up from Stiles, so for a moment, all Stiles could see of him was a view of his chin and nostrils. “Shut up!” he snapped, at whoever else was talking, before turning his worried eyes back to Stiles.

It took a moment for Stiles to consider the question. The queen of all headaches was pounding away at the side of his head, probably from where a werewolf punched him out, but other than that… he was feeling much better.

“Not buzzing,” he said by way of explanation.

“What?” Derek asked, gently. Stiles realised the older guy had Stiles’ head on his knees and was holding his hand, which was so cute.

“He said,” an irritated voice from the Stiles’ left said, the one that had been muttering, “’Not buzzing’. Obviously he means he’s no longer feeling lit on fire by his own magic. You’re welcome.”

“Shut up, Peter,” said everyone else in the car. Everyone else appeared to be Parrish, Derek and Lydia, if Stiles still knew how to recognise voices.

That wasn’t enough people. He sat up, or tried to. Somehow Derek had him wrapped up securely in werewolf arms, both nice and unfair. “Where’s Allison?” he called.

There was an odd silence in the car. Derek looked away, towards whoever sat next to him, presumably Lydia. Parrish seemed to be driving. Suddenly, a new thought occurred to Stiles. Allison had never been there. She’d been the first of the witch’s tricks.

Peter, cold blooded psychopath that he was, recovered first. “Stiles…”

Stiles’ stomach clenched. All that hope, for nothing.

“Why did you do that?” Lydia demanded, interrupted Peter and Stiles’ thoughts.

“Lydia!” Derek growled in warning, but Stiles felt hands tighten on his ankles. Apparently his head was on Derek and his legs were on Lydia.

“He bought a dead woman back to life, Derek!” she snapped, “That’s not…”

“Not natural,” Peter Hale finished for her, sounding somehow both wistful and sarcastic.

“What, am I supposed to be politically correct in front of the zombie?” Lydia continued, “It’s not natural, zombie! You shouldn’t be here, and neither should Allison!”

“Not me!” Stiles protested. “Witches!”

“Well she wasn’t there until you put your arms out and she appeared,” said Lydia.

“You just couldn’t see here!” Stiles protested. “Martinique promised to keep her safe if I did as she wanted.”

“It’s Okay,” said Derek, “Scott’s in the other car with her, Malia and Argent. They’re going to Deaton. Like us. We’ll see them soon.”

“Is she okay?” Stiles asked, “Did she need more? Did she…?”

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek repeated, “You did your best.”

“That’s not an answer!” Stiles snapped, but he was too tired for it to sting.

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have done the same, Lydia,” came Peter’s voice from the front.

Lydia’s sniff was neither denial nor confirmation.

“Dad!” Stiles suddenly shouted. “Where…”

“It’s okay,” Derek repeated, apparently endlessly patient with Stiles now Stiles was an invalid, which, where was that when Stiles made the odd mistake when they first met? “We called him. He’s at home. Has no clue how he got there, but he was suddenly in his chair. He’s meeting us at Deaton’s too.”

Stiles grasped Derek’s arm. “And you? Are you okay?”

Derek eyes were wet. They shouldn’t be wet. They seemed to have won, and Stiles quite liked being in his lap, thank you very much.

Derek smiled. It wasn’t real. He nodded. “I’m fine,” he said.

It was a lie.

***

Stiles was lying on something hard and uncomfortable. He wiggled around a little bit trying to get comfortable, it didn't help. He let out a yawn and then turned and then turned again. It was then he fell ungracefully off whatever he was lying on and fell through the air, until he hit the floor. Stiles let out a moan, opened his eyes, and was greeted by the sight of the floor of Deaton's office. That couldn't be right, he was in a car in Derek's arms just moments ago. 

He pushed himself into a sitting position, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the office. It seemed he'd been lying on Deaton's desk, a blanket and pillow had fallen to the floor with him. Stiles scanned the room and then froze when he saw his Dad silently staring at him, from where he was sat in Deaton's office chair. 

"Hey, Dad," said Stiles, awkwardly. 

His Dad frowned at him. "You're grounded." 

"What?" exclaimed Stiles, throwing his hands up in the air, "I'm kidnapped by an evil coven of witches and the first thing you do when you see me is ground me? That's totally unjustifiable, borderline cruel, a work of pure evil."

His Dad raised an eyebrow at him. "At the minute it's two weeks, but if you carry on it'll be two years instead." 

"I'm eighteen," argued Stiles. "I'm legally an adult." 

"You can either spend your time at home willingly," said his Dad, a glint in his eyes. "Or I'll put you in the lock-up for the duration of it." 

"On what charge?" asked Stiles with a snort. The lock-up at the station wouldn't hold him, he'd learned to escape it when he was ten. 

"I'll make one up," said his Dad. "But how about we start with the fact you magicked me home when your life was seriously in danger?" 

Stiles bit his lip. "I'm sorry." 

"Never do that again," said his Dad. "I couldn't bear it. The not knowing whether you're alive or dead." He looked away, in an attempt to disguise the misery on his face. 

"I'm sorry," Stiles said again. 

"You're my world kid," said his Dad. "I'd rather be with you, even if it means putting my own life at risk." 

The Sheriff held out his hand and Stiles caught a hold of it. He pulled him up and into a hug, they stood for a moment just holding each other. Stiles was sure he saw tears in his Dad's eyes when he pulled away. 

"So..." said his Dad, "The whole magic thing, is that permanent?"

Stiles couldn't feel any magic inside of him anymore. "I don't know. Do you think I'll get my Hogwarts letter now?" 

"It doesn't matter if you do," said the Sheriff. "I'm never letting you out of my sight again." 

"I've got to go to College, Dad," said Stiles, his mind began to slowly process everything that had happened. "Where's Derek?" 

"He and Scott were here for a while, but I told them to go home. I'm pretty sure they've both ignored me and are lurking around somewhere."

"And Allison?" asked Stiles. "Is she still doing the whole Peter Hale back from the dead thing?" 

An odd expression appeared on his Dad's face. "She's been awake for a while and asking for you. Deaton's running a few tests on her, but it seems she's fine and back from the dead. Scott and Lydia aren't taking it very well. I think they're both in shock and don't quite believe she's real. Her Dad has taken it a lot better than I would have." 

A knock sounded on the office door, a moment later it swung open to reveal Deaton. His dark eyes surveyed Stiles with a look of pure fascination. 

"I'm glad you're awake," said Deaton.

Even after all these years the man gave Stiles the creeps. 

"You're looking remarkably well," continued Deaton. "Considering what has happened. I must say, I was very impressed with the magic you used to bring back Miss Argent. It was truly remarkable." 

"I don't know how I did it," said Stiles. "One minute I was normal and powerless and the next it was as if there was a magical party going on inside my body and everyone was invited." 

Deaton nodded. "I always knew you were a powerful spark, but how powerful was not so apparent. Although that does not matter now, as far as I can tell you were like a source of remarkable power, but that power source has all but diminished." 

"Are you trying to say I'm out of juice?" asked Stiles, feeling a little sour that it seemed his magic had gone already.

Deaton eyed him thoughtfully. "You will probably be able to do small bits of magic with the appropriate training, but you will never again be able to perform the calibre of magic that brought Miss Argent back from the dead."

"Will I be able to light candles with my mind?" asked Stiles. 

"Perhaps," replied Deaton. 

Stiles shrugged his shoulders, maybe he could still have some fun with this magic thing after all. 

"How about flying?" asked Stiles.

"Stiles!" exclaimed his Dad, looking as if he was about to pull out his own hair. 

"Laser beams from my eyes?" 

"Stiles!" 

"The ability to shrink and grow like Ant-man?" 

His Dad sat down heavily on Deaton's chair. 

"How about power over the weather or invisibility?" 

***

Stiles stepped out of his Dad's patrol car, sighing in relief as he looked at the house. He tried to ignore the stab of disappointment as he saw that neither Scott nor Derek were there. Derek had been absent ever since his odd behaviour in the car and Stiles was starting to get a feeling that something was wrong, very wrong. Perhaps the whole kissing thing had all been one big ploy to save the world. It had worked for Lydia when he'd had a panic attack years ago. Stiles had a feeling Scott had been ordered to stay away until he'd had some rest, he knew his best friend would have questions. 

His Dad opened the front door and Stiles stepped into their house. He was shocked to see there was a number of broken and upturned pieces of furniture on the floor. 

"Peter Hale is paying for the repairs," said his Dad, answering Stiles' silent question. "I don't care if he saved your life, the man's a menace." 

"He saved my life?" asked Stiles. 

"Him and Derek," said the Sheriff, looking a bit awkward. "They realised your magic was connected to your mind and emotions. Peter decided if he switched one off then maybe the magic would switch off too." 

Stiles gingerly touched his aching head. "I wish he'd punched a little more softly." 

"He did what nobody else could have done," said his Dad. "I think we may actually owe him one for once. Although I have made several murder charges disappear in which I'm pretty sure he's my main suspect. 

"Can you get a conviction when your main suspect is a zombie?" asked Stiles.

"I could try," said his Dad. 

Stiles' headache was beginning to return and his eyes felt heavy. "I'm going to head up." 

"Okay, call me if you need me." 

Stiles nodded before climbing the stairs. It felt as if every part of his body hurt and his limbs were made of concrete. He pushed open the door to his room and sighed in relief at the sight of his own bed. Stiles was just about to throw himself onto it, when he caught sight of a figure sitting on his desk chair in the dark. He let out a squawk of shock and jumped backwards. 

"Are you alright up there, kid?" shouted his Dad. 

Derek flicked on the desk lamp, as Stiles clutched at his heart.

"Yeah," replied Stiles. "I just stood on something, that's all." 

"Be careful, I don't want to take another trip to Deaton's tonight," replied his Dad. "The guy gives me the creeps."

"Okay," said Stiles.

His eyes met Derek's and then intensely stared at one another, neither willing to break the silence, but Stiles’ brain flying through thoughts. Was Derek here to bone him or let him down easy? Was Derek always this hot? How had Stiles managed to survive so many occasions in his presence without jumping him?

After a few moments, Stiles asked “Why did you leave Deaton’s?”

Derek kept his gaze, “Your dad told me to leave. I knew you were going to be okay, and I didn’t want to upset him.”

“Oh,” said Stiles. “Uh, so I guess, now it’s over, you’ll …”

Derek’s intense eyes kept boring into Stiles’, expectant.

“Uh…” said Stiles.

He looked away. There was no way Derek wanted him. They’d had a plan to save him, he and Peter. It was nice of them, but it was not really about Stiles at all.

“You’ll go back to New York?” Stiles finished, lamely, not quite able to look at Derek, to see in his eyes the relief that he wasn’t going to have some pathetic teenager mooning over him.

“I… hadn’t decided,” Derek grumbled. “I mean… Peter’s here…”

“You’d stay for Peter?” Stiles asked, unkindly.

Derek shrugged, heavily, “I mean, he’s my only family. And he did save your life…”

“Yeah, maybe, but there are people who can say that about Voldemort…”

“No there aren’t.”

“Okay, maybe not Voldemort, but you know…”

“Stiles…”

Stiles’ eyes flickered to Derek’s once more, but the older man had stumbled to a halt. Stiles took pity on him.

“It’s okay,” he said, “I get it. You don’t really like me, you just… didn’t want some kid to die because of you. I know you don’t actually feel anything for me.”

Derek’s gaze was hard, his jaw tense, his mouth a thin line. He was closing down. That must have been his natural state. He’d put on everything else for Stiles benefit. While he was under threat.

“Uh, thanks,” Stiles added. “For… you know… coming to the rescue.”

Derek gazed at him a moment longer, his mouth narrowing further still. Then he nodded, stiffly. And then he was out the window.

Stiles’ mouth dropped at the speed. His breath caught at a sudden lump in his throat. All that time, he realised, he’d been hoping Derek would contradict him. He hadn’t realised until the moment he’d been abandoned, but Stiles was desperate for Derek to stay. To hold him and love him. Martinique had tortured him with so many visions, but the possibility of Derek was the hardest to shake.

He dropped onto his bed without bothering to change or wash. There was no point. He was alone again. He’d brought back the love of Scott’s life and yet he himself was alone. He put one of his arms over his eyes, an attempt to block out the world. 

It took an age for him to hear the patter of rain on the windows. It started slow, a steady drip, drip, drip on the glass, but it grew heavier within moments, as the monsters crawled from the earth. They approached the house in a mass of lumbering limbs and grunting breaths, and scaled the house, wobbling like toddlers on a climbing frame. Stiles didn’t realise until one climbed through his bedroom window.

Even then, he thought it was Derek. He sat up, excited and breathless, with Derek’s name on his lips and images of romantic reunions flooding through his head. At the sight of the rain monsters, he was part scared and part furious. They’d defeated Martinique. There was no reason for him to think Brooklyn was taken care of.

He didn’t fight them. There was no point. He let them tug him from the bed and hold him to the floor. His Dad was the only one who might hear any cry, so he didn’t make one. He surrendered, totally, and only watched in silence as the witch appeared at his window, stepped through with the agility of a dancer.

“Stiles,” she said, “I’m pleased you’re still alive.”

Her face and neck were decorated with part healed claw marks, presumably gifts from Peter Hale, but woefully inadequate since she was obviously still alive and here to kill Stiles.

“This is so fucking typical!” Stiles complained, “He literally just rejected me! Like, moments ago! He just… just fucked off!”

The witch perched in mid-air, like something from a cartoon. She rolled her eyes.

“He’s all yours!” Stiles snapped. “Go get! I could not be less of a threat!”

The witch ran her tongue over her teeth, thoughtful for a moment, head on one side.

“So…” she said. “Have you always been this stupid or is it a recent development?”

“Is that rhetorical or…”

“It’s like you’ve both got this masochistic streak. Or maybe you just hate yourselves. Believe you’re not worthy of happiness. I guess that makes sense with Derek; he made a decision that led to the death of his family, but you… I don’t get you. Is it just teenaged angst?”

“What do you want?” Stiles asked.

Brooklyn found a dirty sock and raised an eyebrow at it. “I tried to tell you before you set your dog on me. I don’t know why I’m still being nice. I was almost dead before he left.”

“Yeah, but apparently not dead enough,” Stiles muttered.

The witch leaned back on nothing and made it look impossibly comfortable, “You know, when we were in New York, I desired Derek. Obviously, everyone desires Derek. Straight men desire Derek. But I’m not a psycho…”

“Uh, there’s quite a lot of evidence to the contrary…”

“When Derek turned me down, I said okay. I only did the spell out of this overwhelming sense of curiosity. And a small amount of protectiveness.”

Stiles scrunched up his face. “What?”

“Well, I was worried it might be that awful Argent woman,” Brooklyn said with disgust, “I mean, he lost all sense when she gave him some attention. And I really liked Laura. It would have been a huge betrayal to stand by and do nothing while he mooned after the bitch that murdered his family, forever.”

Stiles stared, completely flummoxed. “What?” he repeated, because he had no clue.

“OKay, I’ll spell it out for you. You really are that stupid.” The witch sighed, “so, Derek and I went on a few dates, but he was all wah, wah, I’m not into it, there’s someone else, blah, blah, blah. I was worried about him, because he has a terrible taste in women…”

“Yeah, really bad,” Stiles agreed.

“I know,” continued the witch, “so I locked him in a cell to keep him out of the way and did this spell that tracked down the one true love of his life. He got all freaked out and broke out of the cell, and ran straight to you, and I think you know the rest…”

“Wait,” said Stiles, “the rain monsters weren’t after me?”

Brooklyn rolled her eyes, “Of course they were after you, idiot.”

Stiles stared, “But you said…”

“The love of his life?” the witch finished for him, and Stiles could only stare as she nodded her head.

“So that means…” Stiles tried slowly, seriously hoping she would confirm what he thought but the witch only made continue motions. “That means… I’m the love of his life?”

The witch sighed. “Finally.”

Then she snapped her fingers and was gone. The rain monsters followed suit, vanishing into thin air, leaving Stiles alone on his floor with just one thought.

“Derek.”

He leapt up and threw on his sneakers, determined to find Derek. He couldn't let him just leave this time. Stiles burst out his room and swept down the stairs, jumping the last few. He was nearly at the door, when his Dad stopped him. 

"And where are you going?" asked his Dad, from his place on the couch. 

Stiles paused, staring at his Dad's far from impressed face. "Err...out?" 

"No," said the Sheriff, in his most authoritative voice. 

"But Dad," whined Stiles. "You don't understand! Derek is going to leave town again and I'm never going to see him again. I need to find him and, I don't know, have some meaningful moment that makes him want to stay. I've not quite thought that through, but maybe I'll offer him my body or something." 

"No," said his Dad again. "You've just been kidnapped by some witches and sustained a head injury. Not even mentioning the fact you're grounded."

"Dad..."

He shook his head at his son. "Trust me kid, he isn't going anywhere. And if he does, you have my permission to track him down and shoot him. I'll even let you borrow Parrish. But I'd say let him sort his head out and come to you."

"But..." Stiles bit his lip, unable to argue with that logic. 

"Bed," ordered his Dad.

Stiles didn't have the energy to argue. But he made sure he stamped hard on every step on the way back up to his room.

***

Stiles woke up to the feeling of weight on his legs. He opened his eyes and saw that Scott was sitting at the end of his bed. It seemed had been watching him sleep, which was kind of creepy. They really needed to figure out some boundaries one day. Or not. 

"Hey man," said Scott, smiling at Stiles lopsidedly. "I've been waiting for you to wake up." 

He sat up and let out a yawn. "How long have you been here?" 

"About an hour," said Scott. "Mom has been trying to talk to me all morning, but I sneaked out and came here. I needed to see you were okay." 

Stiles nodded. "I'm fine. But are you angry about Allison?" 

Scott shook his head. "No, just confused. One minute she's gone and I was okay with that, well not okay, but it had gotten a little easier. And now she's back and I had forgotten how beautiful she was. My memories, they don't do her justice. And the way she smells! She smells of home Stiles. I just want to hug her and touch her, but I'm afraid if I do, it will be some type of trick or she'll leave again. And she looks so young, so young and frozen in time. I didn't realise that I loved her as much as I still do. I loved Kira, but this is different. She's Allison. She's like looking at the sun." 

Stiles had forgotten how vocal his best friend could be about his feelings towards one Allison Argent. He hadn't realised he'd missed it a little. A lot of his fond memories had connections to moments like this where Scott rambled on about her. It reminded him of the good old days when all they had to worry about was Peter on his revenge spree.

"Sorry," said Scott, blushing a little. "You probably don't want to hear this, after everything that has happened recently." 

"Actually," said Stiles. "It's all normal teenage stuff and I'd love some teenage stuff to take my mind off the past few days." 

The look on Scott's face darkened. "I thought we were going to lose you last night." 

Stiles tried to smile. "I'm not going to be taken down by some witches, Scotty; they're so cliché and dramatic. I kept expecting J.K Rowling to burst in and sue them for breaching copyright or something. They were totally want-to-be death eaters, but not as cool. Snape would have been turning in his grave at how bad they were at it." 

"Allison," said Scott, drinking in the word. "Said they kept you in some room and kept giving you illusions that weren't real. She was scared because it was like your body was there, but you weren’t." 

Stiles shrugged trying to make it seem not as much as a big deal as it was, but felt a lump in the back of his throat. "I can handle unimaginative illusions. They were a walk in the park really, like playing some messed up video game." 

Scott frowned, but didn't probe further. Stiles was relieved that he knew when to let a subject go. 

"Deaton said I might be able to light things on fire with my mind," said Stiles, in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

Scott's mouth slipped into an 'O' shape. "Really?" 

"Yep," said Stiles. "I would totally ask to join the Avengers or something, if I wasn't a DC man." 

"I wouldn't let them have you," said Scott, a serious look on his face. "You're pack and that membership is life long, dude. You don't get to leave. Deaton said that was why the spell didn't work for the witches last night. The coven couldn't take your power because it already belonged to a werewolf version of a coven. They can't mess with bonds like that." 

"You're not going to lock me in a basement now too, are you?" asked Stiles. 

"No," said Scott brightly. "Although I may consider it if you and Derek don't get your act together. I mean he was so angry when you were taken, I'd never seen him lose it like that before. And then that kiss the two of you shared; that was intense." 

Stiles shrugged, feeling a little bit sorry for himself. "I fucked it all up. He's probably halfway to South America or New York by now." 

"No, he's not," said Scott, a knowing look on his face. 

"How do you know?" asked Stiles. 

"Because he's standing outside your window," said Scott, pointing. "Right now." 

Stiles' head turned so fast, he was pretty sure he'd end up with whiplash. He gasped when he saw Derek staring in at the two of them through the glass. Stiles flailed and fell gracelessly out of bed. Scott began to laugh and let himself out through Stiles' bedroom door. Stiles hated him. He was a traitor! He really needed to re-think his choice of friends. 

He finally stood up and saw that Derek was in his room, once again fixing him with that intense stare of his. Stiles felt his heart begin to race and a tingling sensation of anticipation under his skin. 

"You haven't left yet?" said Stiles, licking his dry lips. 

"Your Dad pulled me over this morning," said Derek, not quite able to let his eyes meet Stiles'. "He shot out all four of my tyres and I'm pretty sure he ripped my battery out too, when he thought I wasn't looking." 

Stiles felt an overwhelming feeling of love towards his Dad. He really was the best Dad in the world. Although it seemed Derek was trying to skip town again. That wasn't good. They couldn't build a relationship on that.

"Were you leaving?" asked Stiles, trying to sound cool and not at all flustered. "Because that's totally cool, dude. I mean I wouldn't blame you. I wouldn't particularly want to be in love with some hyperactive, skinny, pale teenage boy who has no filter on his mouth. I'd probably skip town and not look back too."

"I wasn't leaving," said Derek, clenching his fists in frustration. 

"Oh," said Stiles. "But I thought-"

"I didn't leave last night because I wanted to run away from my feelings for you," Derek finally bit out, looking as if he was in pain. "I'm not afraid of my feelings. I left because I was frustrated. Frustrated that you still couldn't believe I could care for you in that way, even after I was willing to die just so I could spend my last few minutes of my life with you. I would have thought by now, it would be obvious how I felt." 

Stiles' mouth felt very dry. "I think that's the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me." 

The expression on Derek's face finally relaxed, as he let out a snort. "There's more I could say, but I don't think that would be fair on you. You deserve better than me Stiles. I'm too old and too damaged to be what you need me to be." 

"Too damaged?" exclaimed Stiles. "Have you seen me lately? I think we're pretty even in the damaged stakes. We would both graduate top of our classes. That isn't the problem, the problem is you're scared. You're scared that we could be something good and you'd have to change the whole martyr thing that you're so good at. You've spent so long being angry at the world and alone, that you don't know if you'll be able to cope if you finally have to stop." 

"Stiles," said Derek, he went to reach out for him but stopped himself. 

"I'm here, Derek. I'm not going anywhere," said Stiles. He stepped forward and gently placed his hands on Derek's cheeks, making the werewolf look at him. "If you want me, you can have me. Nothing bad is going to happen." 

Their eyes met and Stiles felt a number of emotions that made his insides feel like jello. Derek really was beautiful and hot, extremely hot. He drove Stiles up the wall, but he loved him. Derek's eyes widened, as if he could read Stiles' mind. 

"Crap," said Stiles suddenly. "Did I just say that out loud?" 

Derek smiled. A genuine smile. Even better than the one he’d used to flirt with the desk sergeant. His whole face was the sun. Stiles wanted to bathe in that light for all time.

“I love you, too,” Derek said quietly.

Stiles grinned wide. He had never felt quite so awesome in his whole life. His heart surged, a magical warmth unlike any he’d experienced flooded his whole being.

He flung himself at Derek, arms around his neck, legs around his waist. Derek actually laughed at him.

“What?” said Stiles, “disparaging my enthusiasm?”

“Never,” Derek replied.

“Good,” said Stiles. “You did catch me, after all.”

It was true; Derek had caught him under his thighs. Stiles knew he was going to love having a werewolf boyfriend.

“So, how do you feel about superhero roleplay?” Stiles asked.

Derek raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not… not relevant to the moment,” said Stiles. “I think it’s time we made out.”

“Agreed,” said Derek, so Stiles kissed him, hard. He wrapped his arms around his neck and clung with his legs. Derek reciprocated, enthusiastically. It was the hottest thing that had ever happened ever.

“Oh god!” groaned a voice from behind Stiles.

Stiles stopped kissing Derek, very quickly indeed. His father walking in on him was the biggest turn off in the history of the world.

“Is this going to become a thing?” his dad asked, uncomfortably.

Stiles looked over his shoulder, but had no desire to climb down from Derek’s arms. “I certainly hope so. That cool?”

“You’re supposed to be grounded,” his dad reminded him.

“Uh…” Stiles didn’t let go. He respected his dad but this was Derek!

Dad sighed, “Okay, you get one pass because of the whole kidnap thing, then no alone time for the rest of the time you’re grounded, get it?”

“Okay,” said Stiles, only a little sadly.

“And Derek can come to dinner every night, but only when I’m here.”

“Okay,” said Derek.

“And… be safe,” Stiles’ father added. “And keep the door closed. Seriously! I don’t need to see stuff like that.”

“Okay,” said both of them.

Stiles’ dad closed the door, and Stiles waited for his footsteps to fade as he walked off.

“Your dad approves?” Derek asked. It was as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Yeah,” said Stiles, “I think you won him over with your desperation to save my life and obvious love.”

“But…”

“And you’re a werewolf, with awesome werewolf strength to save me from all the criminals,” said Stiles, “He’ll like that.”

Derek frowned, “I’m so much older than you.”

Stiles grinned, “He was ten years older than my Mom,” he said, “These pesky six years, pfft.”

Derek still wasn’t convinced, “You’re a kid…”

“Uh, no,” said Stiles, “I’m way more mature than you.”

“No you’re not,” Derek argued.

“Am too.”

“Are not!”

“Am, too!”

“Are not!” 

“Am too, no takebacks!”

“Stiles…”

“Oh, yeah, mature.” Stiles didn’t really have any arguments about that. He could only grin. “You know, you’ve been holding me up like this for hours!”

“Barely five minutes…” Derek corrected.

“Yeah, but, it’s totally hot,” said Stiles. “Do you think you could catch me if I fell of a building?”

“Please don’t test that,” said Derek.

Stiles bit his lip, “Hmm, maybe if you agree to the odd costume… of my choice…”

“Oh my god,” Derek groaned, but it was a totally loving groan. Because Derek loved Stiles. He didn’t just find him slightly annoying. He really, truly, wanted to marry him and have his babies, loved him.

“Can we make out now?” Stiles asked.

“Will it shut you up?” Derek asked.

“Yeah, totally. For about, twenty minutes?” 

Derek smirked, “I’ll consider that a challenge.”

Derek managed to keep him quite for way more than twenty minutes. And it was awesome.


End file.
